The miser was saying to
himself, "He is just out of the hospital; he will be as hungry as a
convalescent." The young men were saying, "What a head! what a
brigand! we shall have our hands full!"
"This is my son, the painter; my good Joseph," said Agathe at last,
presenting the artist.
There was an effort in the accent that she put upon the word "good,"
which revealed the mother's heart, whose thoughts were really in the
prison of the Luxembourg.
"He looks ill," said Madame Hochon; "he is not at all like you."
"No, madame," said Joseph, with the brusque candor of an artist; "I am
like my father, and very ugly at that."
Madame Hochon pressed Agathe's hand which she was holding, and glanced
at her as much as to say, "Ah! my child; I understand now why you
prefer your good-for-nothing Philippe."
"I never saw your father, my dear boy," she said aloud; "it is enough
to make me love you that you are your mother's son. Besides, you have
talent, so the late Madame Descoings used to write to me; she was the
only one of late years who told me much about you."
"Talent!" exclaimed the artist, "not as yet; but with time and
patience I may win fame and fortune."
"By painting?" said Monsieur Hochon ironically.
"Come, Adolphine," said Madame Hochon, "go and see about dinner."
"Mother," said Joseph, "I will attend to the trunks which they are
bringing in."
"Hochon," said the grandmother to Francois, "show the rooms to
Monsieur Bridau.
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