"
"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."
That afternoon, about four o'clock, Joseph went to the rue du Sentier
and found his brother, who had taken Giroudeau's place. The old
dragoon had been promoted to be cashier of a weekly journal
established by his nephew.
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