The mother had a purpose. One morning as she was petting
Joseph while he was sketching a large picture (finished in after years
and never understood), she said, as it were, casually and aloud,--
"My God! what is he doing?"
"Doing? who?"
"Philippe."
"Oh, ah! he's sowing his wild oats; that fellow will make something of
himself by and by."
"But he has gone through the lesson of poverty; perhaps it was poverty
which changed him to what he is. If he were prosperous he would be
good--"
"You think, my dear mother, that he suffered during that journey of
his. You are mistaken; he kept carnival in New York just as he does
here--"
"But if he is suffering at this moment, near to us, would it not be
horrible?"
"Yes," replied Joseph. "For my part, I will gladly give him some
money; but I don't want to see him; he killed our poor Descoings."
"So," resumed Agathe, "you would not be willing to paint his
portrait?"
"For you, dear mother, I'd suffer martyrdom. I can make myself
remember nothing except that he is my brother."
"His portrait as a captain of dragoons on horseback?"
"Yes, I've a copy of a fine horse by Gros and I haven't any use for
it."
"Well, then, go and see that friend of his and find out what has
become of him."
"I'll go!"
Agathe rose; her scissors and work fell at her feet; she went and
kissed Joseph's head, and dropped two tears on his hair.
"He is your passion, that fellow," said the painter. "We all have our
hopeless passions.
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