things are
magnificent in
painting. Put some vermillion on your
palette, and warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots;
come, butter it well in. Do you
pretend to have more sense than
Nature?"
"Look here," said Fougeres, "take my place while I go and write that
note."
Vervelle rolled to the table and
whispered in Grassou's ear:--
"Won't that country lout spoilt it?"
"If he would only paint the
portrait of your Virginie it would be
worth a thousand times more than mine," replied Fougeres, vehemently.
Hearing that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet
retreat to his wife, who
was stupefied by the
invasion of this
ferocious animal, and very
uneasy at his co-operation in her daughter's
portrait.
"Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette,
and
taking the note. "I won't thank you. I can go back now to
d'Arthez'
chateau, where I am doing a dining-room, and Leon de Lora
the tops of the doors--masterpieces! Come and see us."
And off he went without
taking leave, having had enough of looking at
Virginie.
"Who is that man?" asked Madame Vervelle.
"A great artist," answered Grassou.
There was silence for a moment.
"Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my
portrait? He frightened me."
"He has only done it good," replied Grassou.
"Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you,"
said Madame Vervelle.
The ways of
genius had ruffled up these
orderly bourgeois.
The phase of autumn so
pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was
just
beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man
of
genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an
invitation to come out
to his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how
little
attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist.
"You artists," he continued, "want emotions, great scenes, and witty
talk; but you'll find good wines, and I rely on my
collection of
pictures to
compensate an artist like you for the bore of dining with
mere merchants."
This form of
idolatry, which stroked his
innocent self-love, was
charming to our poor Pierre Grassou, so little accustomed to such
compliments. The honest artist, that atrocious mediocrity, that heart
of gold, that loyal soul, that
stupid draughtsman, that
worthy fellow,
decorated by
royalty itself with the Legion of honor, put himself
under arms to go out to Ville d'Avray and enjoy the last fine days of
the year. The
painter went
modestly by public
conveyance, and he could
not but admire the beautiful villa of the bottle-dealer,
standing in a
park of five acres at the
summit of Ville d'Avray, commanding a noble
view of the
landscape. Marry Virginie, and have that beautiful villa
some day for his own!
He was received by the Vervelles with an
enthusiasm, a joy, a
kindliness, a frank bourgeois
absurdity which confounded him. It was
indeed a day of
triumph. The
prospective son-in-law was marched about
the grounds on the nankeen-colored paths, all raked as they should be
for the steps of so great a man. The trees themselves looked brushed
and combed, and the lawns had just been mown. The pure country air
wafted to the nostrils a most enticing smell of cooking. All things
about the
mansion seemed to say:
"We have a great artist among us."
Little old Vervelle himself rolled like an apple through his park, the
daughter meandered like an eel, the mother followed with dignified
step. These three beings never let go for one moment of Pierre Grassou
for seven hours. After dinner, the length of which equalled its
magnificence, Monsieur and Madame Vervelle reached the moment of their
grand
theatrical effect,--the
opening of the picture
galleryilluminated by lamps, the reflections of which were managed with the
utmost care. Three neighbours, also
retired merchants, an old uncle
(from whom were expectations), an
elderly Demoiselle Vervelle, and a
number of other guests invited to be present at this ovation to a
great artist followed Grassou into the picture
gallery, all curious to
hear his opinion of the famous
collection of pere Vervelle, who was
fond of oppressing them with the
fabulous value of his
paintings. The
bottle-merchant seemed to have the idea of competing with King Louis-
Philippe and the galleries of Versailles.
The pictures,
magnificently framed, each bore labels on which was read
in black letters on a gold ground:
Rubens
Dance of fauns and nymphs
Rembrandt
Interior of a dissecting room. The
physician van Tromp
instructing his pupils.
In all, there were one hundred and fifty pictures, varnished and
dusted. Some were covered with green baize curtains which were not
undrawn in presence of young ladies.
Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon
his lips as he recognized half his own pictures in these works of art.
He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard
Douw! He was twenty great masters all by himself.
"What is the matter? You've turned pale!"
"Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle. The
painter took pere Vervelle by the
button of his coat and led him to a
corner on
pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then
the rage.
"You bought your pictures from Elie Magus?"
"Yes, all originals."
"Between ourselves, tell me what he made you pay for those I shall
point out to you."
Together they walked round the
gallery. The guests were amazed at the
gravity in which the artist proceeded, in company with the host, to
examine each picture.
"Three thousand francs," said Vervelle in a
whisper, as they reached
the last, "but I tell everybody forty thousand."
"Forty thousand for a Titian!" said the artist, aloud. "Why, it is
nothing at all!"
"Didn't I tell you," said Vervelle, "that I had three hundred thousand
francs' worth of pictures?"
"I painted those pictures," said Pierre Grassou in Vervelle's ear,
"and I sold them one by one to Elie Magus for less than ten thousand
francs the whole lot."
"Prove it to me," said the bottle-dealer, "and I double my daughter's
'dot,' for if it is so, you are Rubens, Rembrandt, Titian, Gerard
Douw!"
"And Magus is a famous picture-dealer!" said the
painter, who now saw
the meaning of the misty and aged look imparted to his pictures in
Elie's shop, and the
utility of the subjects the picture-dealer had
required of him.
Far from losing the
esteem of his admiring bottle-merchant, Monsieur
de Fougeres (for so the family persisted in
calling Pierre Grassou)
advanced so much that when the
portraits were finished he presented
them gratuitously to his father-in-law, his mother-in-law and his
wife.
At the present day, Pierre Grassou, who never misses exhibiting at the
Salon, passes in bourgeois regions for a fine
portrait-
painter. He
earns some twenty thousand francs a year and spoils a thousand francs'
worth of
canvas. His wife has six thousand francs a year in dowry, and
he lives with his father-in-law. The Vervelles and the Grassous, who