"
"They say you estimated them to Monsieur Hochon at one hundred and
fifty thousand francs," said Flore; "is that true?"
"Yes," said the painter, with childlike honesty.
"And did you intend," said Flore to the old man, "to give a hundred
and fifty thousand francs to your nephew?"
"Never, never!" cried Jean-Jacques, on whom Flore had fixed her eye.
"There is one way to settle all this," said the painter, "and that is
to return them to you, uncle."
"No, no, keep them," said the old man.
"I shall send them back to you," said Joseph, wounded by the offensive
silence of Max and Flore. "There is something in my brushes which will
make my fortune, without owing anything to any one, even an uncle. My
respects to you, mademoiselle; good-day, monsieur--"
And Joseph crossed the square in a state of irritation which artists
can imagine. The entire Hochon family were in the salon. When they saw
Joseph gesticulating and talking to himself, they asked him what was
the matter. The painter, who was as open as the day, related before
Baruch and Francois the scene that had just taken place; and which,
two hours later, thanks to the two young men, was the talk of the
whole town, embroidered with various circumstances that were more or
less ridiculous. Some persons insisted that the painter was maltreated
by Max; others that he had misbehaved to Flore, and that Max had
turned him out of doors.
"What a child your son is!" said Hochon to Madame Bridau; "the booby
is the dupe of a scene which they have been keeping back for the last
day of his visit.
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