He was as sure of his
friends as he was of himself; and the Descoings, he knew, would take
nothing to put in her lottery. At the idea which then suggested itself
the poor woman wrung her hands. Philippe alone could have committed
this domestic theft.
"Why didn't he ask me, if he wanted it?" cried Joseph, taking a dab of
color on his palette and stirring it into the other colors without
seeing what he did. "Is it likely I should refuse him?"
"It is robbing a child!" cried the Descoings, her face expressing the
deepest disgust.
"No," replied Joseph, "he is my brother; my purse is his: but he ought
to have asked me."
"Put in a special sum, in silver, this morning, and don't take
anything out," said Madame Descoings. "I shall know who goes into the
studio; and if he is the only one, you will be certain it is he."
The next day Joseph had proof of his brother's forced loans upon him.
Philippe came to the studio when his brother was out and took the
little sum he wanted. The artist trembled for his savings.
"I'll catch him at it, the scamp!" he said, laughing, to Madame
Descoings.
"And you'll do right: we ought to break him of it. I, too, I have
missed little sums out of my purse. Poor boy! he wants tobacco; he's
accustomed to it."
"Poor boy! poor boy!" cried the artist. "I'm rather of Fulgence and
Bixiou's opinion: Philippe is a dead-weight on us. He runs his head
into riots and has to be shipped to America, and that costs the mother
twelve thousand francs; he can't find anything to do in the forests of
the New World, and so he comes back again, and that costs twelve
thousand more.
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