Gabri knew nothing about Claude Lorraine, but he exerted himself with so much kindness to pacify José, that he at length succeeded, by means of a positive promise, to satisfy, at least, the most attainable of his wishes. The Exhibition had just opened, and José from his station in Madame Barbe's shop, could see successive crowds of amateurs thronging the entrance to the Museum; and he was constantly hearing the merits of the different paintings discussed. How, then, could he help ardently longing to examine for himself those interesting works? He had once ventured timidly to approach the door of the Museum, but the dark scowl of the porter, and a slight movement of his cane, warned him to make a precipitate retreat; not that working-men of all kinds, and soldiers, cannot without difficulty gain admission into these exhibitions; but it must be owned that poor José, at his age, and in his linen pantaloons, besmeared with every colour in M. Barbe's establishment, and in his tattered and scanty jacket, presented an appearance by no means calculated to soften the rigour of so proper a gentleman. Having then confided his grief, both to his young and his old friend,—to Francisco and to Gabri,—the affair was settled in the following manner. Francisco, with his father's permission, presented his little companion with a coat, and a pair of nankeen trousers, which he had laid aside, and which could easily be made to fit José. Philip, who had for some time been working at a tailor's, eagerly offered his services. Dame Robert purchased a pretty piece of stuff, which her daughter cut out for a waistcoat; and Gabri declared that he would take upon himself to provide the hat. José burned with impatience to enjoy the generosity of his friends; but the requisite preparations necessarily took some time, for the little workers had more zeal than capacity; and, besides, they could not neglect their ordinary tasks. It was necessary, therefore, to wait, and José, finding himself alone in the shop, and wishing to divert his mind, determined to take another view of the picture which had made so deep an impression on him, and which the young painter, according to custom, had left for some time with M. Barbe. It was hung at a considerable height; José mounted a ladder, to get it down; but, thinking he heard the voice of the terrible Madame Barbe, he hastily replaced it, and, in his precipitation, brushed against the still fresh paint with his sleeve, and rubbed out a portion of the ground and almost the whole of one leg. Recovering from his fright, and finding no one approach, he again raised his eyes: judge of his dismay, on beholding what had occurred! What was to be done? What would become of him, if the young painter happened to come for his picture? What would Madame Barbe say? for, if questioned on the subject, he would not utter a falsehood. Besides, all evasion would be as useless as it would be wicked, as such an act of carelessness could have been committed by no one but him. The poor child was in despair; he already saw himself ignominiously turned out of the house; but time pressed, and he must discover some means of repairing the mischief. He could find but one. He ran to hide the picture in his room, and was presumptuous enough to rely upon his own ability to repair the fatal blemish.

It may be thought, that so daring an idea was but little likely to enter the mind of a child only thirteen years of age; but José, as we have before observed, was born with extraordinary talents for painting; besides, he knew nothing else; he occupied his thoughts with nothing else;—all that he had seen and heard from his earliest childhood had reference to painting. Neither is it without example, that remarkable talents—especially when constantly directed towards one object—have produced, even in extreme youth, very astonishing results. Some years ago at Florence, when there happened to be a fall of snow of a few inches thick, a very unusual occurrence in that climate, the children of the common people might be seen gathering it together into great heaps, forming it into giants in the principal square, and in the streets into colonnades and statues, and even into groups, in which artists themselves could not but acknowledge a remarkable imitation of the great works in the midst of which they were born; so much does the influence of what they hear and see act upon the minds and dispositions of children, and give, as a mere starting-point, to some of those who live in the atmosphere of art, that which to others less favoured proves almost a goal. It must also be remembered, that the work on which José was about to try his skill was that of a youth of fifteen, and, consequently, far from being faultless.

He had seen enough of painting to feel at no loss in charging a palette; but he wanted colours, brushes, &c.; and José well knew that, though in the midst of everything of this kind, he had no right to touch any. He therefore resolved to have recourse to the friendship of Francisco, and to ask him for the money necessary to make his purchases at a distant shop. It may perhaps appear singular that his friend Gabri did not come to his aid; but the absence of this guardian angel had been the cause of his misfortune as there was no friendly glance or hand to warn, or raise him up. Gabri, for the first time during the whole fifteen years that he had lived with M. Barbe, had asked leave of absence for a few days, in order to visit his native place; his request was so reasonable, that it could not be refused, but Madame Barbe's ill-temper was at its height when she beheld him depart without being able to obtain a single word of explanation relative to the motives which had induced him to undertake this unexpected journey.

Gabri was to return on the Sunday evening, the day following that which had proved so fatal to poor José; but to wait for his coming was impossible, this same Sunday being the only time that the poor boy had at his own disposal. He therefore hastened to M. Enguehard's, and having fortunately found Francisco alone, he confided to him his embarrassment. Francisco shuddered at his friend's danger, but was almost as much terrified at the projected reparation as at the accident itself; nevertheless, at the urgent entreaty of José, who feared lest his absence should be remarked, he gave him all the money he had, amounting to four francs ten sous. This was sufficient for José's purpose; for, as may be easily imagined, there was no question of easel, nor colour box, and he made so much haste, that his purchases were completed and hidden before Madame Barbe had once asked for him.

José was tormented during the whole of the day by the idea of his daring undertaking; and his preoccupation prevented him from being as much delighted as he would otherwise have been with his new clothes, which Philip, with an air of importance, brought home tied up in a handkerchief, in tailor fashion, under his arm. The poor boy, who expected great praise and many thanks, was somewhat disconcerted at the indifference with which José examined an invisible seam, which in spite of this qualification was even more easily distinguishable than any of the others. He therefore went off, persuaded that José was ill, for he could never attach an unkind motive to his conduct.

José, awakening with the earliest dawn, at first felt nothing but the delight of possessing colours and brushes. He prepared his rude palette with extreme care, and made this important operation last as long as he could; but when all was ready, the difficulty of commencing vividly presented itself to his mind, and caused him so much anxiety, that he remained motionless, not daring to touch a brush, when all at once a fortunate inspiration restored his courage. "I have to paint half a leg," he said to himself. "Well, then, why not copy my own? The greatest masters use models, and paint everything from nature; I can easily place one foot without inconveniencing myself. We shall see if with this assistance I cannot manage." And José commenced by cutting a caper; then looking at the figure, the legs of which, fortunately for him, were outstretched, he placed one of his own in nearly the same position, and with a trembling hand gave the first touch. By degrees that fever of enthusiasm, which always fills the mind in every kind of composition, took possession of him; he became excited; he fancied himself drawing like Raphael, colouring like Rubens; and his hand, so timid at first, worked with freedom and facility; he felt no further embarrassment, and did not cease until he had completely repaired the mischief.

His task ended, José went down, to watch for an opportunity of replacing the picture without being observed. It was already late, the whole of the family were going out for a walk; and Madame Barbe was in such good humour, on account of a pretty cap which her husband had just given her, that José had no difficulty in obtaining leave to go to the Exhibition, on the understanding that he was to be back before dinner-time, to arrange certain things, which Gabri's absence had left in disorder. José, with a light heart, had no sooner lost sight of them than he hastened to hang up the picture, and smiled, as from beneath he beheld the fine effect of his work. Having now nothing to think of but the delight of possessing his new clothes, and, especially, of being privileged to pass the threshold of that door, so long closed against him, he went out, fastening with some pride the metal buttons of his coat, and entered the Exhibition, eyeing the burly porter, as he passed, with a confident air.

At that period, the noble staircase, with its double banister, which we admire at present, was not built; the square saloon of the Exhibition was reached by a side door, leading from the Place du Musée, and a staircase, which now only serves as a private entrance. This entrance was neither so convenient nor handsome as the present one; but still it was princely in its dimensions, and especially so to the unaccustomed eyes of poor José, who had never seen anything more splendid than the church of Saint Roch. Those wide steps of white stone; those walls covered with pictures, for they reached almost to the first landing-place; the tumult of the crowd which pressed forward, carrying him along with it,—all combined to throw José into a kind of bewilderment. He looked without seeing, walked without thinking, and, driven onwards by the crowd, at length found himself at the door of the great gallery of the Museum, which is left open during the Exhibition, but which at that time contained only the works of the old masters. At the sight of this immense gallery, magnificent even to those who are familiar with magnificence, José stood struck with astonishment, while an involuntary feeling of respect caused him to take off his hat. There were but few visitors in that part of the Museum; José breathed more freely, and being able to examine without being jostled, began deliciously to taste the pleasure he had so often longed for. Various pictures attracted his attention; but too ignorant to divine their subjects, there was something wanting to his enjoyment. But when, at last, he came to that picture of Raphael's, known by the name of La Vierge à la chaise, the figures could easily be recognised, and José found himself, so to speak, in the midst of his habitual acquaintances; he was able to make comparisons, having seen other church paintings; and his natural taste was so pure, and he had so remarkable an instinct for appreciating the master-pieces of art, that at the sight of this admirable production, an emotion hitherto unknown took possession of him. The more he looked, the more complete did the illusion become; the face of the divine infant seemed to become animated, and to smile upon him. José, leaning against the balustrade, extended his arms and smiled too, and in the delight of these new sensations, forgot everything else, when a noise close by him made him start and awake from his reverie. He turned his head, and beheld a man attentively examining him; he was still young, and possessed a countenance remarkable for its expression; his eyes, full of fire, were fixed with kindness upon José, who, notwithstanding his ordinary timidity, replied without embarrassment to the questions addressed to him. The stranger wished to know his name, what he thought of Raphael's picture, what were his views, his occupations, &c. José's artless statements, through which his precocious genius could readily be discerned, deeply interested the stranger. "You were born a painter, child," he said, touching José's forehead. "You already know what no master could teach you, but you must be directed, and this I will undertake to do. Here is my address, my name is G——; call upon me, I will make something of you."

José, overwhelmed with joy in recognising the name of one of our most celebrated artists, clasped his hands without being able to utter a word. Monsieur G. gave him another kind look, and departed. It was some time before José recovered from the agitation into which this event had thrown him, and the day was already far advanced when he remembered that he was still in the service of Madame Barbe, and that his accident caused him to run great risk of not remaining in it. Full of anxiety, he precipitately retraced his steps, and soon reached home. Alas! every one had returned, and the manner in which he was received, was a presage of the storm about to burst over his devoted head.

Barbe, who was hurriedly pacing the shop, advanced towards him, as if to question him, then turned away his head with an expression of vivid sorrow. José, confounded, was beginning to murmur some excuses, when Madame Barbe, the violence of whose passion had hitherto prevented her from speaking, at length recovered the power of pouring forth the abuse destined for the hapless culprit.

"Here you are, at last, Sir!" she said. "You are certainly very punctual; however, I can easily imagine, you young rascal, that you were in no hurry to make your appearance."

"I am very sorry, Madame....." replied José.

But Madame Barbe would not give him time to finish.

"Do not interrupt, you shameless liar," she cried; "you little viper, whom we have nourished, and who now stings his benefactors. But I could pardon you for being idle and ungrateful, if you had not sacrificed the reputation of my house, by destroying the pictures confided to us. Yes," she continued with more vehemence, seeing José turn pale, "you fancied, you hardened, good-for-nothing, that your tricks would not be discovered; thief, we know all: not content with having irreparably destroyed a fine work, you have carried your villany so far as to steal from us the things necessary for your undertaking." José uttered a cry of horror, and rushing towards his implacable mistress, who still continued her invectives, he protested his innocence, in so far at least as related to the second part of the accusation; but neither his tears nor his protestations produced any effect upon the prejudiced minds of his employers. It had so happened that when they entered, the light which M. Barbe carried, fell directly upon the unfortunate figure restored by José; and as nature had made him a colorist, a quality which can never be acquired, and one in which the young student was deficient, it was an easy matter to perceive the difference. Besides, poor José, in his embarrassment, had copied the left foot, which happened to be most convenient for him, without observing whether it was the proper one, and had so placed it that the great toe was on the outside. The loft in which the culprit slept was visited, and his still moist palette and colours left no doubt of what he had done. Barbe would have pardoned the injury done to the painting, but the idea of theft revolted his honest nature, and it was difficult to avoid suspecting José, since they were ignorant of Francisco's friendship for him, and well knew that he had nothing of his own. It was in vain that he related the simple truth, it only appeared an ingeniously concocted story; and Madame Barbe, after a second explosion of invectives, took him by the arm, and would have turned him out of doors that very evening, had not her husband positively declared that he should remain for that night. His wife, obliged to yield, revenged herself by seeking two or three of her neighbours, who hurried with malicious eagerness to see the left foot upon the right leg, and the woful condition of poor little José, choking with grief in a corner. He was spared none of their commentaries, these kind souls taking care to speak very loudly and very distinctly.

"Certainly," said one, "his mother did well to die, poor dear woman. She did not deserve such a son."

"I always expected it," said another, "this is what comes of picking up vagabonds; but Dame Robert is such an obstinate woman. What is one to do?" A third added that everything must be locked up, and care taken that he was never left alone. Finally, their cruelty was carried to such extremes, that poor José was unable any longer to restrain his sobs, which being heard by M. Barbe in his room, he immediately hastened to the poor child and sent him to bed.

José passed a frightful night; a few hours more and he would be sent away disgraced, and obliged to return to his adopted mother, without the means of support, and with a charge of dishonesty weighing upon him. One hope alone remained to him, Francisco might attest the truth of what he had said; he therefore determined to entreat M. Barbe, who was more humane than his wife, to go and question Francisco, who would establish his innocence; but even this resource failed the unfortunate child. The same idea had occurred to Barbe, who was very fond of him, and early in the morning he had called upon M. Enguehard. Wishing to spare his favourite as much as possible, he merely asked Francisco whether he had lent José any money. But Francisco not having been put upon his guard, and fearing lest he might in some manner injure his friend, or be reprimanded by his father, committed a fault too common among children, and in order to save José he told a falsehood, and by so doing completed his ruin, for he assured M. Barbe that he had not lent his apprentice anything. M. Enguehard knew nothing more, and Barbe returned, convinced of José's theft, and of the necessity of sending him away. He therefore repulsed him angrily when he came to present his request, and told him to pack up his things. But Madame Barbe was not a woman to lose an opportunity of delivering a speech or making a scene, and therefore determined before expelling the unhappy boy, to oblige him to make an apology to the young student whom she had begged to call at the shop. José almost happy at this unexpected respite, placed his little bundle on the ground, and leaning upon it, cast a sorrowful look on all the objects around him, and which he was about to leave for ever. Gabri's vacant place caused his tears to flow afresh; would that faithful friend believe his protestations any more than the rest, whilst proofs were so strong against him? At that moment the postman placed a letter in M. Barbe's hand. "Oh!" said the latter, "it is from Nogent-sur-Marne, and from friend Gabri. What can he have to write to us about?" and he read the letter to himself with signs of the greatest surprise. Madame Barbe, impatient to know what it contained, snatched it from his hand, and, after reading it, exclaimed, "Heaven be praised, this act of folly will never be committed. Listen to this," she said, calling to José, "behold the just punishment of your infamous conduct;" and she read, or rather declaimed the following letter:—

"From Nogent-sur-Marne, my native place, September the 7th.

"Monsieur Barbe,—Notwithstanding my intention of returning the day after that fixed by you, I write to inform you in a more authentic and convenient manner of my intentions with regard to Joseph Berr, called José, your apprentice. Monsieur Barbe, I have lost my wife and three children, three fine boys whom God has taken away from me; but I dare say I have already told you this. I have a nice little property perfectly free from all claims (a good seven thousand francs placed here in honest hands). Therefore, being master of my own will, which is to love and assist the said José, I intend that he shall follow the calling which he is so anxious for, viz., that of an artist, and for this I have bound myself, by my signature, which you will see at the end of the deed written by me upon stamped paper, and which accompanies this letter. I beg that it may be read to the said José, and never again recurred to, being, notwithstanding, Monsieur Barbe,

"Your very faithful Servant,
"Sebastian Gabri."

The second paper was as follows:—

"Joseph Berr, called José, requiring, in order to be able to prosecute his studies in painting, during four years, a sum of money, which I possess, I give it to him as a loan which he will return to me when his profession becomes profitable, together with the interests and costs as is just and customary.

	f.	c.
"First. One franc per day for maintenance during the space of four years, making	1460	0
Item. For entering the studio of a celebrated master, 15 francs per month for four years	720	0
Item. For indemnifying Madame Barbe, for three years' apprenticeship, still due to her	50	0
Item. For 25 centimes every Sunday, for child's amusements	52	0
Item. For my journey hither by coach, expressly on his account	10	0
Item. For my expenses while here	12	0
Item. For this sheet of stamped paper	0	30
Item. For interest during four years	460	6
	2764	36

"Which sum I undertake to pay, according as required, Provided that the board and lodging be furnished by Dame Robert as heretofore.

"The said José will put his mark at the end of this deed, to which I also cheerfully put my name.

"Sebastian Gabri."

It is easy to imagine the agony of poor José while listening to the reading of these papers; what would have overwhelmed him with joy the evening before, now filled him with anguish. Gabri, that tender and generous friend, as a reward for his sacrifice, was about to learn that the object of his care was unworthy of it. Still José was not guilty, and these bitter trials were now on the point of coming to the happiest termination. Francisco, tormented as one always is by the consciousness of having done wrong, and rendered uneasy about his friend on account of M. Barbe's visit, determined to confess all to his father, who had no difficulty in convincing him of the gravity of his fault, and of the inconvenience which might result to the innocent José, who might perhaps be accused of having stolen the colours from his master. Francisco, alarmed at this idea, entreated his father to take him instantly to M. Barbe's; and there, regardless of the spectators, he had the courage and the merit to confess his fault, and thus completely justify his friend.

Whilst Madame Barbe stood biting her lips, and saying, "It is very singular, very strange," and her kind-hearted husband brushed the tears from his eyes, the two boys affectionately embraced each other, and enjoyed the happiest moment of their young lives. A moment afterwards, José had another triumph, highly flattering indeed to his self-love, but not to be compared in real worth with the noble friendship of Francisco. The young author of the injured painting was with his master when Madame Barbe wrote to him her anything but clear account of the accident, which she was anxious to turn to the disgrace of poor José. This master was the very Monsieur G—— before mentioned, who, recognising in the hero of the story, the child who had so much interested him at the Museum, wished to accompany his pupil to M. Barbe's. For a long time he examined in silence the attempt which had cost the poor boy so dear, then turning towards his pupil, "If you don't make haste," he said, "I can tell you he will catch you." This man, distinguished as much by feeling as by genius, was able to appreciate the action of the worthy and generous Gabri; he read his letter with emotion, and taking a pencil, ran it through the fifteen francs per month destined for José's instruction. "I cannot hope," he said, smiling, to José, "to be the celebrated master mentioned by Gabri, but he must at least let me teach you all I know."

It may easily be imagined, that everything was arranged, without difficulty, to the entire delight of the poor boy. Madame Barbe, awed by the presence of Monsieur G—— and Monsieur Enguehard, felt that she must put some restraint upon her tongue. She unhesitatingly accepted, it is true, the indemnification of fifty francs, and only murmured on the day that Barbe presented José with his first box of colours. Dame Robert, who was consulted in all important arrangements, was at first somewhat discontented with José's choice; but she could refuse nothing to her dear child. "And, after all," she said, "it is a trade, like any other. I am only sorry that the apprenticeship is so long." She was completely consoled, however, when José came once more to live with her.

To complete José's happiness, M. Enguehard, a short time after these occurrences, begged M. G—— to receive his son as a pupil. The two friends, therefore, were again together, following the same career with equal ardour, and although with different success, still without any interruption to their mutual friendship.

Those who are curious to know whether José justified the hopes inspired by his childhood, may have their curiosity gratified by a perusal of the Second Part of his history.

SEQUEL
TO
THE HISTORY OF POOR JOSÉ.

How tranquil and pleasant is the life of the artist! He possesses an advantage which is denied even to the fortunate of this world,—an occupation always affording amusement and variety, together with an almost total indifference to everything which does not bear directly upon painting. The artist sees that all is quiet in the town in which he lives; this is enough for him: scarcely does he know the names of the ministers in office, and he is the last to learn what is going on around. Occupied the whole day with his art, his studio is his universe; and at night, in the midst of a re-union of friends, artists like himself, he still dwells upon his favourite idea, which is never absent from his mind, while he gains instruction, or is inspired with increased ardour by the conversation of his colleagues or rivals. These re-unions are gay, and abound in wit, as well as in mischief. Not a few of those caricatures which attract the loungers of the Boulevards and the Rue du Coq, have been sketched by a skilful hand during these moments of recreation. A few amiable women, authors, distinguished musicians, and poets, make a part of these seductive meetings: each one amuses himself according to his fancy; and if the mirth is sometimes a little noisy, and the wit a little too free, wit and mirth are at least always to be found in them.

But if the artist is happy, the student is even more so. The former, being no longer at an age in which he can advance much, is keenly alive to his own deficiencies, and, if it must be owned, often looks with a jealous eye on the success of his brother artists; while to the other, on the contrary the horizon of his hopes is unbounded, and emulation but a healthy stimulant, which does not degenerate into envy. The student tries to excel his companions, but he loves them all; he encourages the less skilful, frankly admires those who are superior to himself, and, while pursuing his laborious occupations, seldom fails to lay the foundation of one of those honourable and lasting friendships which embellish the remainder of his life. Little favoured by fortune, as a general rule, these young men endure privations with cheerfulness, or rather their simple habits prevent them from feeling them as such. The whole of their time and powers, being constantly directed towards the one object in view, there is no space left for the minor passions, which so often disturb the mind of youth. The pleasures of the toilet are unknown to him who spends his days in the studio, and public amusements are too expensive to be thought of more than once or twice a year.

Francisco and José, re-united as we have already said in the studio of a celebrated painter, led a life in every way consonant to their tastes; but José especially felt the happiness of a condition, to which he had never thought it possible to attain. He was no longer the hapless child, rescued from the street by the benevolence of a kind-hearted woman, but a fine young man, the honour and hope of Monsieur G——'s studio, and, what was still better, a good young man, always simple and modest, almost ashamed of being distinguished, and redoubling his attentions towards his first protectors, in proportion as his success rendered them less necessary to him. The excellent Gabri devoted a portion of the sum which had been destined for his instruction to the hire of a room in the house in which Dame Robert lived, where José could work without much inconvenience. He rose very early, and commenced the labours of the day by making pictures of everything that presented itself to his imagination, or copied drawings lent to him by his master. After a hasty breakfast, he repaired to the studio, worked until five o'clock, when, accompanied by Francisco, and conversing together on their projects and hopes, he quietly returned home. M. Enguehard often invited him to dinner, and took great pleasure in extending his knowledge in such a manner as might be useful to him. Thanks to the kind instruction of Madame Enguehard, and to his own natural abilities, he soon learned to read and write; while M. Enguehard especially endeavoured to make him acquainted with history and fable,—acquirements indispensable to a painter, who, in fact, ought not, if it were possible, to remain in ignorance of any branch of knowledge. Everything can and ought to tend to his advancement in art: travel, reading, science, the habits of different classes of society, solitude, happiness, and misery, all are useful and profitable to him who seeks to represent, with the utmost possible truth, the acts and passions of man.

Francisco and José had not yet reached what might be called the moral portion of their studies; but José could form some idea of it, and began to make, beforehand, his provisions for the future. During the winter evenings, the two friends used to draw by lamplight, from seven till ten, according to the custom of almost all the students. Each pay a trifling sum monthly for the hire of the room, the models, and the lights. The students of the various academies assemble together, and their masters often take pleasure in passing an hour with them, and aiding them with their counsel.

It may, perhaps, be thought that such constant occupation must be very fatiguing, but there are so many attractions, and so much novelty, in the study of art, that weariness is seldom felt, especially in the full vigour of youth; and those who have experienced it, can say whether a week in the life of a man of the world does not leave behind it more lassitude, more weariness, and more void, than one such as I have just described. Besides, all is not labour in these pursuits: they rest, they chat; ideas are exchanged and corrected; the rich are generous towards the poor, and never refuse to share with them their experience. The character even is improved in these studious reunions—images in miniature of the great world into which they will have, at a later period, to be thrown; it is no longer the rod and the rule of college, but it is still the salutary influence of companionship; it is emulation, and a something of the honours of renown, without that alloy which so often spoils it for man. But woe to the sullen and morose! woe to those who cherish absurd or bad propensities! for justice is speedily rendered either by bitter sarcasm or by force. There, as elsewhere, the most distinguished take the lead, and it can easily be understood that studies, whose aim in general is to trace the good and the beautiful, may tend to elevate the mind, and strengthen every generous sentiment of the heart.

José enjoyed, with intense delight, the idea of being something of himself, of seeing before him the almost certain prospect of an honourable subsistence, acquired by a great talent. He may one day, perhaps, be rich; the name of Berr may one day be uttered with respect, and his pictures placed with care in the cabinets of the most fastidious lovers of art; but I may confidently assert, in advance, that nothing will be so dear to him, that nothing will efface from his memory the remembrance of the time, when, on the Monday, accompanied by Francisco, each went to purchase his sheet of tinted paper, or when, before retiring to rest, once more turning his canvass to take another look at the morning's work, he ventured to hope for all that he might then possess.

Profoundly impressed with the obligations which he was under to Dame Robert and to Gabri, he made it a law to himself never to lose a single day during the whole four years of his pupilage. Always the first at the studio, he never left before the time of the lessons, as is sometimes done by those idlers who, having gossiped or wasted in play the whole of the morning, hide themselves at the arrival of the master, who supposes them absent. Still, José was not always in an equally favourable disposition; the games and boyish tricks of his companions possessed some attraction for him; but he rarely yielded to the temptation, and did all he could to prevent his too volatile friend Francisco from doing so. "What matters," said the latter, "losing a few hours? We have time enough!" and Francisco wasted his time without scruple. Nevertheless, his natural ability, and a few weeks' steadiness, always kept him pretty nearly in the second rank among his companions.

At the expiration of a year, José began to paint sufficiently well from nature to attempt some portraits; and he eagerly availed himself of this means of being less burdensome to his friend Gabri. At his express desire, Dame Robert persuaded one of her relations to have her face drawn in colours; at the same time assuring her, that her boy was well skilled in his business. José would certainly have been sadly distressed could he have heard her thus torture the language of art; but, happily, he was not present, and the good woman, with two or three phrases of this kind, persuaded her cousin, who merely stipulated that she should be painted with two eyes, and with her lace cap and coral ear-rings. This portrait was to be finished for her husband's birthday. José therefore left the studio a little earlier every day; and, as the likeness was very striking, and had but little shade, while the eyes looked full at the spectator, and the coral ear-rings seemed as if they could be taken in the fingers, the work was universally applauded. The young painter received innumerable compliments, twelve francs, and several commissions, which, although paid for below their value, so much increased his little store, that he had the satisfaction of being able, at the end of a year, to reimburse Gabri for the hire of his room, and Dame Robert for the trifling expense of his board. The greater his advancement, the more profitable did his talents become; and he at length followed the example of many other students of slender means, who, having the good sense not to be ashamed of employing their talents in sign-painting, adorn the shops of Paris with what might almost be called handsome pictures.

All Monsieur G——'s instructions were attentively listened to by José, who sometimes even wrote down the most remarkable passages before he went to bed. One phrase especially struck him as being the true definition of an artist. "Three things," said this clever master to his pupils, "are requisite for him who devotes his life to the fine arts,—genius to conceive, taste to select, and talent to execute." These conditions are equally applicable to the musician and to the poet; but who can flatter himself with being possessed at once of all these three qualifications? José dare not cherish such a hope; he dare not believe that he had genius; but taste and talent might be acquired, he thought; and, as our sage little friend was still but just emerged from childhood, he wrote in large letters, upon his table and upon his easel, the words which thus became to him a fundamental law of painting.

The excellent Gabri experienced the most heartfelt joy at the success of his protégé; he frequently visited him when at work in his room, and, for fear of disturbing him, would remain in perfect silence behind his chair, and then, after embracing him, he would go down to listen to Dame Robert's chat. As we have already observed, Gabri was no talker; their intercourse, therefore, was rather a monologue than a dialogue; but he was never weary of listening, so long as José was the theme; but when Dame Robert went on to any other subject, "Good evening, neighbour," he would say; "Madame Barbe is expecting me, and you know she is not one to make light of things."

One morning, at the class, Monsieur G—— said to his pupils, "Gentlemen, you will to-morrow have a new companion. I recommend him to your kindness. Not too many experiments or jokes, if you please. He is very young, and, doubtless, but little experienced in your ways; be, therefore, good boys. He is sent to me by the city of Angers. Berr, my friend, you will place him by you; and I beg that you, Enguehard, will not show off the Parisian too much." Francisco smiled, without replying; but Monsieur G——'s speech produced the ordinary effect, and which he very well knew himself. The desire of tormenting the new comer immediately seized all these young madcaps, and Francisco in particular. "Oh!" said he, "a pupil from the provinces! how odd that we have had none before. And they think I shall not amuse myself with this young Raphael from Angers! Stuff! our master very well knows the value of his recommendations in this line." And Francisco, encouraged by the laughter of his auditors, began to make a grotesque sketch upon the wall which he assured them was an exact portrait of the Angevin.

"Angevin! Yes, that must be his name," said another young rogue, the usual companion of Francisco's follies; "you know how that exasperates them."

"Oh! as to that," replied Francisco, "we have all our nicknames: am I not the Madcap, and Berr the Phœnix? But listen! I'll tell you what we must do;" and hereupon these two giddy brains began whispering in a corner. José hazarded a few words in favour of the provincial; but he was only laughed at, and was at last obliged to end by joining in their mirth, though he determined, nevertheless, to exert his influence to the utmost at the proper time, in order to save the new pupil from too much annoyance.

Many of the provincial towns had then, and still have, academies of painting, destined for the artistic education of children in humble circumstances; and the pupil who displayed the greatest amount of talent was sent to Paris, to continue his studies under a better master than could generally be obtained in a small town, the expenses of those studies being defrayed by the establishment which elected him. The youth, from whom Francisco and his mischievous companions expected so much diversion, had been chosen by the professors of the Academy of Angers as the most promising of its pupils. This, however, was not saying much; and it did not unfrequently happen, that those who occupied the first rank in the Departmental Schools, were, on entering those of Paris, immediately placed in the lowest; still, however, fortunate that the principles inculcated by their professors were not those of the time of Jouvenet and Boucher. The young student had, unhappily, been directed by an old master—an admirer of that age of absurdity and bad taste. He made his pupils copy figures in red chalk, portraits in pastel, and showed them with pride his prize picture—for he, too, had been to Rome. But we may judge of the merits of his rivals, and of the advantage he derived from his journey, when we learn that this picture, regarded by him thirty years afterwards as his best production, represented Cleobis and Biton; and that the Grecian characters wore Roman armour, and draperies of gauze and silk. To crown his misfortune, the poor candidate, small, ill-made, and more than plainly attired, not so much in conformity with the fashions of his province as with the length of his purse, presented an appearance not altogether unlike the caricature sketched by Francisco upon the wall; and it may, therefore, be easily imagined, that these young satirists did not lose so favourable an opportunity of exercising their humour.

Scarcely had the young man entered, than he was received with noisy acclamations; and two of the pupils, eagerly pressing forward to receive him, overwhelmed him with ironical and outré compliments.

"Sir!" they exclaimed, "your reputation has preceded you; the admiration of your native city was insufficient for such distinguished merit. You are about to receive the homage of Paris, while you have ours already...."

"The name of the Angevin is already celebrated," added another; "and it will be handed down to posterity like that of Josepin."

"But, gentlemen," said the unfortunate victim,—speaking as if all the A's and E's had circumflex accents over them, according to the agreeable custom of his province,—"Gentlemen, I am not called the Angevin. My father's, as well as my own name, is Valentin lâ Grimâudière."[3]

This name, and especially the tone in which it was pronounced, a kind of sing-song, difficult of imitation to those unacquainted with the fair province of Anjou, excited fresh bursts of laughter; and Francisco again taking the word, "You must be aware, Sir," he said, gravely, and at the same time endeavouring to imitate the accent of the stranger, "that the great painters are rarely known by their true names. Thus we speak of Dominichino and Guercino, instead of Dominico Zampieri, and Barbieri da Cento. Assuredly then it is not surprising that you should be called the Angevin."

"But, gentlemen," replied the simple youth, "you are indeed too good; I do not deserve...."

"You deserve our most profound respect, illustrious companion," interrupted Francisco. "Gentlemen, I present to you the glory of the Angevin Academy, the hero of Pasticcio,[4] the conqueror of Stipling, and the favourite of the Rococos.[5] And to you, noble Angevin, I present my especial friends, Landort, Galvaudeur (the Disturber), La Picoterie (the Torment), Rubens the Younger, and myself, Le Braque (the Madcap), your very humble servant. Now, my worthy friend, you know us perfectly, so away with ceremony; take your place, my Gringalet, and let us see what you can do. At the first rest, you shall be made to read, to write, and to sing, and, after the model, you shall pay your welcome."

The unfortunate Angevin, bewildered by this torrent of bad jokes, dared neither reply nor resist. He had arrived early, in the hope of finding his future companions less numerous; but his precaution had proved a failure. Francisco, and the merry participators in his follies, had divined his intention, and their diligence surpassed his own. The more sober pupils had not yet arrived; and José, detained by a portrait which he had to finish that morning, did not arrive until late, so that the innocent victim remained unprotected in the midst of his persecutors. Although he had announced himself as having painted, Monsieur G—— made him commence by drawing, in order to judge of his power.

"Sit there," said Francisco, pointing to an empty seat between two of his companions; "the call has been made, but that is the place of honour, the best for the light, and the one always chosen by the first on the master's list;" and he pushed the poor lad towards the place which his mischief had destined for him.

As studios in repute are usually well attended, and as space is not always in proportion to the number of the pupils, they are often much inconvenienced, and press round the model in three or four rows of different elevations. Those of the first row are seated upon low wooden benches; those of the second upon chairs; others again upon high stools; while, behind these, upon still higher stools, or standing, come those who paint, with scarcely room for themselves and their light easels. The place pointed out by Francisco to the unfortunate competitor, was upon one of the little benches, so that above him were seated two pupils who amused themselves by resting their drawing-boards upon his head, and obliged him to hold it bent down, in a position by no means convenient, especially for looking at the model, which was placed upon a table two or three feet high. Besides, the disagreeable person above him, pretending to be obliged to touch and retouch his work again and again, crumbled up large pieces of bread, which he afterwards shook over the work of the patient Angevin. More than one bullet of bread was aimed at his nose, too, and by such well-practised hands, that their occupation seemed in no way interrupted. Conversation, however, flowed on as usual, while the elder students, busied with their work, thought no more of the stranger. He, poor fellow, tormented, crushed, with heavy drops of perspiration standing on his brow, and not daring to utter a syllable, smudged his paper at random, while tears rolled down his cheeks when he thought of the opinion Monsieur G—— would form of his talents. Summoning up his courage, however, he at length ventured to address his right-hand neighbour, and said gently, "Would you be so kind as to lend me your penknife, Sir?" No reply. "Sir;" he resumed in a somewhat louder tone, and gently touching him, "if you have a penknife...." The young man looked at him with astonishment, and pointing to his ear, gave him to understand that he was deaf. The Angevin sighed, not wishing to speak louder, for fear of again becoming an object of ridicule, and turning towards his left-hand neighbour, he again said, "Oblige me with a penknife, Sir, if you please." The student raised his head, and replied gravely, "Non intelligo, domine; non sum Gallus." "But, Sir, it is a penknife I want," continued the Angevin, at the same time making a movement with his fingers, as if cutting a pencil. His mischievous companion pretended not to understand him, and affecting to believe that he was making game of him, he pretended to be angry, and gave him so rude a push that he almost fell from his by no means steady seat. His portfolio escaped from his hold, and all the drawings and papers contained in it flew into the middle of the room. The Angevin, in despair, crept as softly as possible to pick them up, but his persecutors were not yet weary of the sport. "Get away from the model! Silence!" exclaimed those of the last row, who were disturbed by this commotion. "To the hunt! dog! hunt!" cried the others. At length the poor boy succeeded in returning to his place; but he found himself so much pressed, and so ill at ease, his companions having designedly drawn closer together, that, urged to extremes, his anger was on the point of triumphing over his timidity, when the door opened, and José appeared.

"Ah! Phœnix, Phœnix!" exclaimed the young students. "Good morning, my brave Phœnix," said Francisco; "you are late for a Monday morning, and will get no place for painting."—"I shall not paint this week," replied José, advancing towards the fire-place; then looking round him he said, "Who will give me his place, and I will give him my study?"—"I! I!" exclaimed several voices.

"Come, then!" said José, who had immediately observed the uncomfortable position of the Angevin, "it shall be you, Maurice;" and he pointed to the pupil seated beside the stranger, who had pretended to be deaf. "Bravo!" exclaimed Maurice, rising, "I shall have your study. Besides, I am not very industriously disposed. I shall do nothing this week. I'll be a gentleman at large!"

José took his place, and by a glance caused the drawing-boards which crushed his unfortunate protégé to be removed: then, as if he had forgotten to bring paper with him, he asked him for a sheet. The Angevin hastened to comply with the request, and José having kindly addressed some questions to him, he began to feel a little more at his ease. At the hour of recreation, these mischief-loving urchins again met to decide whether some grand joke could not be played off upon their victim; but José, stepping into the midst of the group, exclaimed, "No! no! gentlemen, enough of this; let us leave the poor fellow in peace; he is not a Paris boy, and I demand an exception in his favour. I was far more of a foreigner among you than he is, yet have I found in you most excellent comrades."

José was so much beloved, and possessed so much influence over his companions, that their sport had no longer any interest for them the moment he disapproved of it; so the Angevin was abandoned to his young protector. The nickname alone adhered to him, and it was not long before they discovered in him so much kindness and good-nature, that they soon ceased to have any desire of tormenting him. He obtained the good opinion of all his fellow-students; but José was his friend, and to serve him he would have gone through fire and water.

Solon has, I think, said: "No praise before death;" and he said wisely, for one moment of forgetfulness might tarnish even the most irreproachable life. Who can boast of being infallible, especially in youth? José, the prudent José, learned this to his cost; for, unhappily, these reflections apply to him. It was his first fault; but it was a serious one, as we shall show.

Occasionally, during the summer, José's companions formed themselves into little parties, and spent the day in the country in an inexpensive manner; for they had both good legs and a good appetite, and required only simple fare. They went into the environs of Paris, and returned home in the evening, after spending a pleasant day. But José, though keenly alive to the pleasure of these parties, often refused to join them, as they occasioned a loss of time which to him was very precious. However, the fête of Saint Cloud was approaching, and Francisco proposed going to see the fountains play. This proposition was eagerly acceded to, and José felt a strong desire to accompany them. He had never seen the fountains play, and this sight possesses powerful attractions to a Parisian, and especially to a young man like José, who was ignorant of almost everything foreign to his studies. It was, therefore, decided that they should form a party of twelve, dine at Saint Cloud, and share the expenses between them. José communicated his project to Dame Robert, and this excellent woman loved him too tenderly to oppose what appeared likely to afford him so much pleasure; nevertheless, at the moment of his departure, she followed him to the door, recommending him not to lose his purse in the crowd, and not get into any quarrel with the boothkeepers at the fair. José smiled at her fears, and hastened to rejoin his friends, who were to meet him at the Tuileries.

The young people merrily pursued their way, already amused with the procession of carriages, horses, carts, and pedestrians, like themselves, all taking the same direction. On arriving at Saint Cloud, they commenced with a simple breakfast, the greater part of their little treasure being reserved for their evening meal. They then took a survey of the booths, admired the cascades, listened to the bands, marvelled at the conjurors, and even laughed at Punch's buffoonery, as the numerous spectators of this fête are annually accustomed to do at the same season of the year. They several times fell in with a troop of young men, pupils of a different master, and their rivals in glory and talent. These two studios were jealous and inimical, as well from party spirit as from a sentiment of attachment to their masters; and this animosity had been manifested in more than one encounter of class against class, for there existed between them no individual aversion. On this occasion, they looked at each other with an expression of irony.

"Oh, oh!" cried José's companions, "here are the Princes of Babocheux and Flou-flou."[6]

"Yes, gentlemen," replied the others, "ready to admire your Croûtes aux épinards."[7]

Each made a grimace; but they separated without saying anything more.

Returned to the inn, after having wandered about for a considerable time, José and his companions were prepared to enjoy a repast, dainty to them, from their simple habits; and they contemplated it with a degree of satisfaction, which would have made many young people, spoiled either by fortune or by their parents, shrug their shoulders with contempt. Their table was laid in what was called the garden, a small enclosure surrounded by walls, and covered with a trellis work, ornamented with honey-suckle and vine. This spot was capable of containing five or six tables, separated by partitions, also of trellis work, and though very warm, still there was a little more air there than in the house; besides the circumstances of the guests permitted them no choice, and our young students were therefore very well satisfied at being so comfortably located.

As may be imagined, there was no lack of conversation; this turned at first upon their good cheer, which they had time enough to enjoy, as the waiters were so much occupied, that they allowed full half an hour to intervene between each course.

"Well! Angevin, my friend," said Francisco,—for José's protection had caused him to be received into the party,—"what do you think of this Marinade?[8] something better than your usual fare, hey!"

"I should think so," replied the Angevin, holding out his plate for the third or fourth time. "Plague take the stew, I shan't touch it to-morrow."

"What!" cried the young folks, laughing; "what do you mean by the stew?"

"Oh! nothing, nothing," replied the Angevin, already regretting his indiscretion; but his companions insisting, and José joining in their request, he told them, laughingly, that, finding it impossible to live in Paris in any other than the most economical manner, he had ended, after trying various plans, by purchasing a large stew-pan and an earthen stove. He filled it once a week with turnips, potatoes, and a few slices of bacon, which he boiled altogether, and this ragout, which was hot only for the first time, served him for dinner during the whole week. He was so much accustomed to call it his stew, that the word had inadvertently escaped him in the presence of his companions.

"My poor fellow!" said José, holding out his hand to him. "Poor Angevin!" repeated the others; and, so far from laughing, a momentary silence pervaded the whole party.

"Gentlemen," said Francisco, who blushed at the remembrance of the murmurs which often escaped him on account of what he called his father's unnecessary economy; "I am going to propose a toast: to the success of our worthy comrade! May he gain the prize, even though I should myself have to be left behind him."

The young friends rose, and eagerly touched their glasses, while the Angevin, deeply moved, repeated, in a tone of emotion, "Oh! Berr, Berr, it is to you that I owe all this!"

Their conversation then turned upon painting, and upon the hopes entertained by Francisco and José, who flattered themselves with being this year permitted to compete for the prize, not, however, with the presumptuous hope of obtaining it, for they were both very young, especially José; but the mere fact of being admitted to the competition counted for much, and they might perhaps deserve honourable mention. Francisco had, moreover, an additional motive for desiring, as soon as possible, to distinguish himself. Glory was not the only passion which agitated his breast; for some time past he had grieved at being without fortune or reputation, which prevented him from aspiring to an alliance which would have crowned his fondest wishes. But this prospect was so distant and so uncertain that he had never spoken of it, even to José, except once, and then very vaguely.

Whilst, then, they were conversing upon art, with an enthusiasm worthy of the subject, they were interrupted by a loud noise, which proceeded from a room on the first-floor, immediately above the spot where they were dining. As the window was open, it was easy to overhear what passed, and, by a natural feeling of curiosity, the young guests checked their conversation, in order to listen to their joyous neighbours.

"By the powers!" cried one, "here's a splendid charge[9] it ought to be hung up in Barbe's shop; the veriest rapin[10] would recognise it!"

"Yes," said another, "it is his very self, with his vagabond air! Ah! ah! my gentlemen of the green and yellow school! you fancy you are going to carry off the next prizes from us, do you? We shall see, my lads! we shall see!"

Our young friends looked at each other with indignation, and softly approached the window, in order to hear more, for they recognised their antagonists, who doubtless little imagined they were so near.

"For my part," said one of the rival students, "I fear neither Rivol nor Enguehard, nor even the famous Berr, about whom they make such a fuss; he is ready enough, and up to the tricks of the art, and that's all. Enguehard is an idle dog, who does no good, while Rivol is too well off ever to be anything more than an amateur and a dauber. So down with the Purists, and long life to the Colourists!"

"Long life to the Colourists!" shouted his companions, and they added many other jests so bitter and so personal, that José and his friends, already animated by a few glasses of wine, to which they were unaccustomed, could no longer restrain their indignation, and commenced the attack by throwing into the room plates, knives, and anything else which happened to come in their way. The enemy hastened to the window, and recognising their adversaries, uttered shouts of laughter, which completely exasperated the others. A decanter, thrown by José, struck the forehead of one of the Colourists, who in their turn became furious, and began to make a descent, by means of the trellis-work placed beneath the window, for the purpose of crushing their antagonists. A battle then ensued, amidst bitter insults. Fragments of broken chairs flew about in all directions, the women at the neighbouring tables screamed, the children cried, and the men rushed forward to separate the combatants, without being in the least able to understand the invectives with which they overwhelmed each other, under the names of Purists and Colourists. The landlord of the inn, attracted by the noise, ran towards the scene of action, followed by his waiters, and they succeeded, without much difficulty, in calming those who were only soldiers—for they fought solely for the honour of their corps. But the chiefs did not so readily listen to reason; Enguehard was stretched upon the ground, his arms pinioned by the two stout hands of a Colourist, and José, absolutely out of his senses, was stifling, with the weight of his knee, the young man who had spoken of him with so much contempt, and who had just been conquered by his impetuosity.

These four madmen would listen to nothing, and were at length obliged to be separated by main force; but José, while still struggling, slipped over some pieces of the broken plates, and gave himself so violent a twist that he was unable to rise, and was obliged to remain seated on the ground, suffering excruciating pain.

It being proved by the testimony of eye-witnesses, that the young people in the garden had commenced this memorable battle, by throwing plates into the room, and that the Colourists had only broken the trellis-work in descending, the landlord contented himself with a slight sum as indemnification, and allowed them to depart; but José and his friends had done considerable damage, and had been the first to commence the disturbance; they had only sufficient money to defray the expenses of their dinner, and the innkeeper declared that he would be paid, and that he should send for the police. Francisco increased the man's anger, by the rage into which he put himself; the poor Angevin employed prayers and tears, to soften the innkeeper; while José, ashamed, and in despair, maintained a gloomy silence, abandoning himself to the most melancholy reflections, when his name, pronounced by a severe and well-known voice, made him utter a cry, and hide his face in his hands.

The voice was that of the good and vigilant Gabri, who had been induced by his active friendship for José to follow him to the fête, and to watch over the inexperience which he very justly attributed to him. He had watched the young men from a distance, and determined not to make his appearance, except in case of accident; finally, having been able to find accommodation only at the farther end of the place occupied by them at the inn, he had been the last to arrive at the scene of action.

"Sir," he said coldly to the innkeeper, "estimate the damage done, and make out your account; I will discharge the debts of these madcaps, who are of my acquaintance, and we will afterwards settle matters together."

The host, who was no cheat, and who was, moreover, too happy to be paid without any further trouble, made out a tolerably reasonable account, which Gabri immediately discharged. Then telling Francisco and the Angevin to support José, who was unable to walk, he placed him in a carriage, and drove off with him, after having saluted the troop of students, who were still too much bewildered by what had taken place even to think of thanking him.

Gabri had placed José in the cabriolet in as convenient a position as possible for his injured leg, while he went upon the box himself, and during the whole of their way home never once addressed a single word to the poor sufferer, nor even turned his head towards him, notwithstanding the complaints which the constant jolting of the rude vehicle drew from the culprit. The well-paid coachman took them as far as Dame Robert's door. "There, there he is," said Gabri to the terrified woman, "and now good evening; I will see him again when he has recovered, and grown wiser;" and he turned away without listening to Dame Robert's exclamations, who in her trouble did not perceive that José had almost fainted. He was conveyed to bed, his dislocated ankle set, and his numerous bruises attended to: but the wine which he had taken, and the violent excitement which had followed an excess altogether new to him, brought on a somewhat severe illness, which lasted for several days; and even when it was subdued he was obliged to remain six weeks with his foot resting upon a chair, without being able to move. We may judge of his grief and remorse, which many circumstances contributed to augment. Gabri allowed his heart to be touched by his repentance, and consented to see him; but he was sad, and Dame Robert uneasy; and José was one day deeply grieved to see her, while thinking herself unobserved, lock up a bottle of brandy which was standing near him.

Soon afterwards he had to endure a far more bitter trial. The time for competing for the prizes arrived; Francisco was admitted for the sketches; while José, who was only just beginning to walk, and whose studies had, moreover, been too much interrupted, was obliged to give up all hope for that year, and endure the mortification of finding himself left behind by companions considerably less advanced than himself. Francisco, though sincerely grieved at his friend's misfortune, felt his ardour increased from not having to compete with so formidable a rival. He made astonishing efforts to sustain the honour of the school, but he only obtained the second prize, which did not send its possessor to Rome: the first was carried off by that same chief of the Colourists who had spoken of José with so much contempt: and thus the poor boy remained with the bitter remembrance of two months passed in suffering, of a triumph lost, and of a folly committed.

However, as it is not considered that a young man must necessarily be dishonoured because he has once been intoxicated and beaten, José, after having passed some time in a state of complete apathy, at length took courage. He perceived, that instead of abandoning himself to vain regrets he ought to endeavour to repair his fault, while that intimate consciousness of power, in which even the most modest cannot help believing, told him, that he could repair everything. It usually happens after a first fault, that a young man either turns from the evil path, or pursues it for the rest of his life. José had too much superiority of nature not to profit by experience. Redoubling, therefore, both his assiduity and zeal, he made such marked progress during the course of the current year, that Monsieur G. decided that he also might compete as well as Francisco and Rivol.

The place in which the young people then worked at their prize pictures, was situated at the top of that same Pavilion du Musée, of which we have already spoken. It was divided into several little compartments, or cells, called boxes, in each of which a student was shut up, so as to allow him no communication with his companions, and still less with his master or with strangers. The subject for the picture was chosen by the professors of painting of the Institution; the programme was distributed to the candidates, and when their sketches were made, and received, they were all to commence their pictures at the same time, according to those sketches, without changing anything. Each morning, on arriving, they were rigidly searched, in order to make sure that they brought with them no drawings or engravings which could in any manner aid them. Thus left to their own resources, they passed two months in this manner, en loge, as it is termed; and these pictures, the figures in which were one third the size of life, were publicly exhibited during three days before the prizes were awarded. But although it was strictly forbidden for the pupils to see their respective works, in order, doubtless, to prevent the weak from being aided by the strong, or to take care that a happy idea should remain the sole property of its author—notwithstanding, I say, all these precautions, the students of that time, less sensible perhaps than those of the present day, found means of visiting each other without being perceived. The windows of their cells all looked in the same direction, upon a small, dirty, and almost unfrequented square, in which is now situated one of the gates leading to the quay. These temporary abodes were, as we have already said, situated in the roof, all the windows opening upon wide leads, unprotected by railings. These madcaps, at the imminent risk of breaking their necks by falling from an immense height, glided by this way from one cell to another. The more scrupulous closed their windows, so as to prevent intrusion; but two days before the expiration of the time allowed for the pictures, each student permitted, without difficulty, his work to be inspected by his companions, and the little Areopagus, with remarkable sagacity and impartiality, precisely anticipated the decrees of the greater one, and awarded the first and second prize in such a manner, that there is scarcely an example of their decisions having turned out erroneous.

José, who took the first rank in the sketches, now prepared to submit to this trial, so severe, but, at the same time, so important to him. Monsieur G. had recommended the reputation of his studio to his pupils. Three times had they competed, without any of them obtaining the first prize. It was necessary to repair this disgrace, and be avenged for the late success of the Colourists. In addition to two formidable rivals in the opposition school, José had to contend against his two friends, Francisco and Rivol, who, besides having already competed for the prize, had, also, the advantage of age—José was then only fifteen years and a half old; but these considerations by no means discouraged him; and fired by that enthusiastic and true love of art which overcomes all difficulties, he commenced, though not without emotion, the required picture, the subject of which was the "Death of Hippolytus."

Dame Robert, as may be imagined, was greatly excited, and her mind wholly absorbed by her darling boy's undertaking. Certainly, had she been consulted, José would have had nothing to fear; but neither the good woman's indulgence, nor Gabri's affection, could avail poor José anything—they must wait. "If," said Dame Robert, "I could only see what they are doing, I should soon find out whether José had not left them behind; but they are cloistered up like so many monks, and when the boy comes home at night, he does not even so much as give us a hint as to how things are going on."

Gabri, equally anxious, but more discreet than Dame Robert, did not seek to elicit anything from José; but he watched him carefully, sighed when the poor boy appeared depressed, and rubbed his hands with glee when he seemed happy.

The good-natured Angevin, who was not yet sufficiently advanced to compete for the prize, was deeply interested in the success of his friend; but he felt little uneasiness, for he knew that José was very far superior to his rivals. He too would have liked to have seen his work, but he was obliged to content himself with walking beneath the windows of the young captives, and see their heads pop out and in occasionally, like so many marionettes, with now and then a mahl-stick accompanying them, and serving to complete the resemblance.

Six weeks had passed away, the pictures were advancing, and as, with the exception of José and his companions, the competitors were of different schools, he had seen only the work of his friends; and his own was so far superior to theirs, that a hope which he scarcely dared own, even to himself, made his heart beat high within his breast. He had nothing to fear from the other students, as they were all inferior to Francisco and Rivol. He was standing, therefore, contemplating with a kind of secret pleasure the group of terrified horses which he had just completed, when Francisco tapped at his window, and immediately afterwards leaping into the room, told him, with a countenance expressive of the utmost concern, that he was in despair, and should never succeed with his figure of Aricia, which was in the programme distributed for the picture. Subjects are usually selected with but few female figures, these being more difficult for the young artists, as they cannot have models; and the unfortunate Aricia, which almost all of them had reserved till the last, had completely wrecked both the courage and talent of Francisco. He looked with admiration on José's Aricia, for he had been entirely successful, at least in his sketch. José, anxious to soothe the agitation of his friend, accompanied him across the leads to his cell, in order to examine the figure which so much distressed him: he found it awkward, ill-drawn, and in bad taste, and could not conceal from his friend that he thought it detestable. This, of course, served only to increase Francisco's despair. He dashed his palette to the ground, stamped upon it, broke his brushes, and ended by crying with rage. José embraced and tried to soothe him, and at length, by dint of kindness and encouragement, succeeded in persuading him that all was not yet lost, and that he could still repaint the figure during the week that yet remained to them. He pointed out to him what he had to avoid, and raised his courage by dwelling on the merits of the rest of the picture. At last, after having spent two hours in this manner, he left him, if not entirely consoled, at least sufficiently recovered to resume his work.