born," said one; "he is the image of a baboon."

"He has the face of a brigand and the eyes of a basilisk."
"All artists are like that."

"They are as wicked as the red ass, and as spiteful as monkeys."
"It is part of their business."

"I have just seen Monsieur Beaussier, and he says he would not like to
meet him in a dark wood; he saw him in the diligence."

"He has got hollows over the eyes like a horse, and he laughs like a
maniac."

"The fellow looks as though he were capable of anything; perhaps it's
his fault that his brother, a fine handsome man they tell me, has gone

to the bad. Poor Madame Bridau doesn't seem as if she were very happy
with him."

"Suppose we take advantage of his being here, and have our portraits
painted?"

The result of all these observations, scattered through the town was,
naturally, to excitecuriosity. All those who had the right to visit

the Hochons resolved to call that very night and examine the
Parisians. The arrival of these two persons in the stagnant town was

like the falling of a beam into a community of frogs.
After stowing his mother's things and his own into the two attic

chambers, which he examined as he did so, Joseph took note of the
silent house, where the walls, the stair-case, the wood-work, were

devoid of decoration and humid with frost, and where there was
literally nothing beyond the merest necessaries. He felt the brusque

transition from his poetic Paris to the dumb and arid province; and
when, coming downstairs, he chanced to see Monsieur Hochon cutting

slices of bread for each person, he understood, for the first time in
his life, Moliere's Harpagon.

"We should have done better to go to an inn," he said to himself.
The aspect of the dinner confirmed his apprehensions. After a soup

whose wateryclearness showed that quantity was more considered than
quality, the bouilli was served, ceremoniously garnished with parsley;

the vegetables, in a dish by themselves, being counted into the items
of the repast. The bouilli held the place of honor in the middle of

the table, accompanied with three other dishes: hard-boiled eggs on
sorrel opposite to the vegetables; then a salad dressed with nut-oil

to face little cups of custard, whose flavoring of burnt oats did
service as vanilla, which it resembles much as coffee made of chiccory

resembles mocha. Butter and radishes, in two plates, were at each end
of the table; pickled gherkins and horse-radish completed the spread,

which won Madam Hochon's approbation. The good old woman gave a
contented little nod when she saw that her husband had done things

properly, for the first day at least. The old man answered with a
glance and a shrug of his shoulders, which it was easy to translate

into--
"See the extravagances you force me to commit!"

As soon as Monsieur Hochon had, as it were, slivered the bouilli into
slices, about as thick as the sole of a dancing-shoe, that dish was

replaced by another, containing three pigeons. The wine was of the
country, vintage 1811. On a hint from her grandmother, Adolphine had

decorated each end of the table with a bunch of flowers.
"At Rome as the Romans do," thought the artist, looking at the table,

and beginning to eat,--like a man who had breakfasted at Vierzon, at
six o'clock in the morning, on an execrable cup of coffee. When Joseph

had eaten up all his bread and asked for more, Monsieur Hochon rose,
slowly searched in the pocket of his surtout for a key, unlocked a

cupboard behind him, broke off a section of a twelve-pound loaf,
carefully cut a round of it, then divided the round in two, laid the

pieces on a plate, and passed the plate across the table to the young
painter, with the silence and coolness of an old soldier who says to

himself on the eve of battle, "Well, I can meet death." Joseph took
the half-slice, and fully understood that he was not to ask for any

more. No member of the family was the least surprised at this
extraordinary performance. The conversation went on. Agathe learned

that the house in which she was born, her father's house before he
inherited that of the old Descoings, had been bought by the Borniches;

she expressed a wish to see it once more.
"No doubt," said her godmother, "the Borniches will be here this

evening; we shall have half the town--who want to examine you," she
added, turning to Joseph, "and they will all invite you to their

houses."
Gritte, who in spite of her sixty years, was the only servant of the

house, brought in for dessert the famous ripe cheese of Touraine and
Berry, made of goat's milk, whose mouldy discolorations so distinctly

reproduce the pattern of the vine-leaves on which it is served, that
Touraine ought to have invented the art of engraving. On either side

of these little cheeses Gritte, with a company air, placed nuts and
some time-honored biscuits.

"Well, Gritte, the fruit?" said Madame Hochon.
"But, madame, there is none rotten," answered Gritte.

Joseph went off into roars of laughter, as though he were among his
comrades in the atelier; for he suddenly perceived that the parsimony

of eating only the fruits which were beginning to rot had degenerated
into a settled habit.

"Bah! we can eat them all the same," he exclaimed, with the heedless
gayety of a man who will have his say.

"Monsieur Hochon, pray get some," said the old lady.
Monsieur Hochon, much incensed at the artist's speech, fetched some

peaches, pears, and Saint Catherine plums.
"Adolphine, go and gather some grapes," said Madame Hochon to her

granddaughter.
Joseph looked at the two young men as much as to say: "Is it to such

high living as this that you owe your healthy faces?"
Baruch understood the keen glance and smiled; for he and his cousin

Hochon were behaving with much discretion. The home-life was of less
importance to youths who supped three times the week at Mere

Cognette's. Moreover, just before dinner, Baruch had received notice
that the grand master convoked the whole Order at midnight for a

magnificent supper, in the course of which a great enterprise would be
arranged. The feast of welcome given by old Hochon to his guests

explains how necessary were the nocturnal repasts at the Cognette's to
two young fellows blessed with good appetites, who, we may add, never

missed any of them.
"We will take the liqueur in the salon," said Madame Hochon, rising

and motioning to Joseph to give her his arm. As they went out before
the others, she whispered to the painter:--

"Eh! my poor boy; this dinner won't give you an indigestion; but I had
hard work to get it for you. It is always Lent here; you will get

enough just to keep life in you, and no more. So you must bear it
patiently."

The kind-heartedness of the old woman, who thus drew her own
predicament, pleased the artist.

"I have lived fifty years with that man, without ever hearing half-a-
dozen gold pieces chink in my purse," she went on. "Oh! if I did not

hope that you might save your property, I would never have brought you
and your mother into my prison."

"But how can you survive it?" cried Joseph naively, with the gayety
which a French artist never loses.

"Ah, you may well ask!" she said. "I pray."
Joseph quivered as he heard the words, which raised the old woman so

much in his estimation that he stepped back a little way to look into
her face; it was radiant with so tender a serenity that he said to

her,--
"Let me paint your portrait."