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The Two Brothers by Honore de Balzac

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Etext prepared by John Bickers, jbickers@templar.actrix.gen.nz
and Dagny, dagnyj@hotmail.com




Translated By
Katharine Prescott Wormeley


To Monsieur Charles Nodier, member of the French Academy, etc.

Here, my dear Nodier, is a book filled with deeds that are
screened from the action of the laws by the closed doors of
domestic life; but as to which the finger of God, often called
chance, supplies the place of human justice, and in which the
moral is none the less striking and instructive because it is
pointed by a scoffer.

To my mind, such deeds contain great lessons for the Family
and for Maternity. We shall some day realize, perhaps too
late, the effects produced by the diminution of paternal
authority. That authority, which formerly ceased only at the
death of the father, was the sole human tribunal before which
domestic crimes could be arraigned; kings themselves, on
special occasions, took part in executing its judgments.
However good and tender a mother may be, she cannot fulfil the
function of the patriarchal royalty any more than a woman can
take the place of a king upon the throne. Perhaps I have never
drawn a picture that shows more plainly how essential to
European society is the indissoluble marriage bond, how fatal
the results of feminine weakness, how great the dangers
arising from selfish interests when indulged without
restraint. May a society which is based solely on the power of
wealth shudder as it sees the impotence of the law in dealing
with the workings of a system which deifies success, and
pardons every means of attaining it. May it return to the
Catholic religion, for the purification of its masses through
the inspiration of religious feeling, and by means of an
education other than that of a lay university.

In the "Scenes from Military Life" so many fine natures, so
many high and noble self-devotions will be set forth, that I
may here be allowed to point out the depraving effect of the
necessities of war upon certain minds who venture to act in
domestic life as if upon the field of battle.

You have cast a sagacious glance over the events of our own
time; its philosophy shines, in more than one bitter
reflection, through your elegant pages; you have appreciated,
more clearly than other men, the havoc wrought in the mind of
our country by the existence of four distinct political
systems. I cannot, therefore, place this history under the
protection of a more competent authority. Your name may,
perhaps, defend my work against the criticisms that are
certain to follow it,--for where is the patient who keeps
silence when the surgeon lifts the dressing from his wound?

To the pleasure of dedicating this Scene to you, is joined the
pride I feel in thus making known your friendship for one who
here subscribes himself

Your sincere admirer,

De Balzac
Paris, November, 1842.



In 1792 the townspeople of Issoudun enjoyed the services of a
physician named Rouget, whom they held to be a man of consummate
malignity. Were we to believe certain bold tongues, he made his wife
extremely unhappy, although she was the most beautiful woman of the
neighborhood. Perhaps, indeed, she was rather silly. But the prying of
friends, the slander of enemies, and the gossip of acquaintances, had
never succeeded in laying bare the interior of that household. Doctor
Rouget was a man of whom we say in common parlance, "He is not
pleasant to deal with." Consequently, during his lifetime, his
townsmen kept silence about him and treated him civilly. His wife, a
demoiselle Descoings, feeble in health during her girlhood (which was
said to be a reason why the doctor married her), gave birth to a son,
and also to a daughter who arrived, unexpectedly, ten years after her
brother, and whose birth took the husband, doctor though he were, by
surprise. This late-comer was named Agathe.

These little facts are so simple, so commonplace, that a writer seems
scarcely justified in placing them in the fore-front of his history;
yet if they are not known, a man of Doctor Rouget's stamp would be
thought a monster, an unnatural father, when, in point of fact, he was
only following out the evil tendencies which many people shelter under
the terrible axiom that "men should have strength of character,"--a
masculine phrase that has caused many a woman's misery.

The Descoings, father-in-law and mother-in-law of the doctor, were
commission merchants in the wool-trade, and did a double business by
selling for the producers and buying for the manufacturers of the
golden fleeces of Berry; thus pocketing a commission on both sides. In
this way they grew rich and miserly--the outcome of many such lives.
Descoings the son, younger brother of Madame Rouget, did not like
Issoudun. He went to seek his fortune in Paris, where he set up as a
grocer in the rue Saint-Honore. That step led to his ruin. But nothing
could have hindered it: a grocer is drawn to his business by an
attracting force quite equal to the repelling force which drives
artists away from it. We do not sufficiently study the social
potentialities which make up the various vocations of life. It would
be interesting to know what determines one man to be a stationer
rather than a baker; since, in our day, sons are not compelled to
follow the calling of their fathers, as they were among the Egyptians.
In this instance, love decided the vocation of Descoings. He said to
himself, "I, too, will be a grocer!" and in the same breath he said
(also to himself) some other things regarding his employer,--a
beautiful creature, with whom he had fallen desperately in love.
Without other help than patience and the trifling sum of money his
father and mother sent him, he married the widow of his predecessor,
Monsieur Bixiou.

In 1792 Descoings was thought to be doing an excellent business. At
that time, the old Descoings were still living. They had retired from
the wool-trade, and were employing their capital in buying up the
forfeited estates,--another golden fleece! Their son-in-law Doctor
Rouget, who, about this time, felt pretty sure that he should soon
have to mourn for the death of his wife, sent his daughter to Paris to
the care of his brother-in-law, partly to let her see the capital, but
still more to carry out an artful scheme of his own. Descoings had no
children. Madame Descoings, twelve years older than her husband, was
in good health, but as fat as a thrush after harvest; and the canny
Rouget knew enough professionally to be certain that Monsieur and
Madame Descoings, contrary to the moral of fairy tales, would live
happy ever after without having any children. The pair might therefore
become attached to Agathe.

That young girl, the handsomest maiden in Issoudun, did not resemble
either father or mother. Her birth had caused a lasting breach between
Doctor Rouget and his intimate friend Monsieur Lousteau, a former sub-
delegate who had lately removed from the town. When a family
expatriates itself, the natives of a place as attractive as Issoudun
have a right to inquire into the reasons of so surprising a step. It
was said by certain sharp tongues that Doctor Rouget, a vindictive
man, had been heard to exclaim that Monsieur Lousteau should die by
his hand. Uttered by a physician, this declaration had the force of a
cannon-ball. When the National Assembly suppressed the sub-delegates,
Lousteau and his family left Issoudun, and never returned there. After
their departure Madame Rouget spent most of her time with the sister
of the late sub-delegate, Madame Hochon, who was the godmother of her
daughter, and the only person to whom she confided her griefs. The
little that the good town of Issoudun ever really knew of the
beautiful Madame Rouget was told by Madame Hochon,--though not until
after the doctor's death.

The first words of Madame Rouget, when informed by her husband that he
meant to send Agathe to Paris, were: "I shall never see my daughter

"And she was right," said the worthy Madame Hochon.

After this, the poor mother grew as yellow as a quince, and her
appearance did not contradict the tongues of those who declared that
Doctor Rouget was killing her by inches. The behavior of her booby of
a son must have added to the misery of the poor woman so unjustly
accused. Not restrained, possibly encouraged by his father, the young
fellow, who was in every way stupid, paid her neither the attentions
nor the respect which a son owes to a mother. Jean-Jacques Rouget was
like his father, especially on the latter's worst side; and the doctor
at his best was far from satisfactory, either morally or physically.

The arrival of the charming Agathe Rouget did not bring happiness to
her uncle Descoings; for in the same week (or rather, we should say
decade, for the Republic had then been proclaimed) he was imprisoned
on a hint from Robespierre given to Fouquier-Tinville. Descoings, who
was imprudent enough to think the famine fictitious, had the
additional folly, under the impression that opinions were free, to
express that opinion to several of his male and female customers as he
served them in the grocery. The citoyenne Duplay, wife of a cabinet-
maker with whom Robespierre lodged, and who looked after the affairs
of that eminent citizen, patronized, unfortunately, the Descoings
establishment. She considered the opinions of the grocer insulting to
Maximilian the First. Already displeased with the manners of
Descoings, this illustrious "tricoteuse" of the Jacobin club regarded
the beauty of his wife as a kind of aristocracy. She infused a venom
of her own into the grocer's remarks when she repeated them to her
good and gentle master, and the poor man was speedily arrested on the
well-worn charge of "accaparation."

No sooner was he put in prison, than his wife set to work to obtain
his release. But the steps she took were so ill-judged that any one
hearing her talk to the arbiters of his fate might have thought that
she was in reality seeking to get rid of him. Madame Descoings knew
Bridau, one of the secretaries of Roland, then minister of the
interior,--the right-hand man of all the ministers who succeeded each
other in that office. She put Bridau on the war-path to save her
grocer. That incorruptible official--one of the virtuous dupes who are
always admirably disinterested--was careful not to corrupt the men on
whom the fate of the poor grocer depended; on the contrary, he
endeavored to enlighten them. Enlighten people in those days! As well
might he have begged them to bring back the Bourbons. The Girondist
minister, who was then contending against Robespierre, said to his
secretary, "Why do you meddle in the matter?" and all others to whom
the worthy Bridau appealed made the same atrocious reply: "Why do you
meddle?" Bridau then sagely advised Madame Descoings to keep quiet and
await events. But instead of conciliating Robespierre's housekeeper,
she fretted and fumed against that informer, and even complained to a
member of the Convention, who, trembling for himself, replied hastily,
"I will speak of it to Robespierre." The handsome petitioner put faith
in this promise, which the other carefully forgot. A few loaves of
sugar, or a bottle or two of good liqueur, given to the citoyenne
Duplay would have saved Descoings.

This little mishap proves that in revolutionary times it is quite as
dangerous to employ honest men as scoundrels; we should rely on
ourselves alone. Descoings perished; but he had the glory of going to
the scaffold with Andre Chenier. There, no doubt, grocery and poetry
embraced for the first time in the flesh; although they have, and ever
have had, intimate secret relations. The death of Descoings produced
far more sensation than that of Andre Chenier. It has taken thirty
years to prove to France that she lost more by the death of Chenier
than by that of Descoings.

This act of Robespierre led to one good result: the terrified grocers
let politics alone until 1830. Descoings's shop was not a hundred
yards from Robespierre's lodging. His successor was scarcely more
fortunate than himself. Cesar Birotteau, the celebrated perfumer of
the "Queen of Roses," bought the premises; but, as if the scaffold had
left some inexplicable contagion behind it, the inventor of the "Paste
of Sultans" and the "Carminative Balm" came to his ruin in that very
shop. The solution of the problem here suggested belongs to the realm
of occult science.

During the visits which Roland's secretary paid to the unfortunate
Madame Descoings, he was struck with the cold, calm, innocent beauty
of Agathe Rouget. While consoling the widow, who, however, was too
inconsolable to carry on the business of her second deceased husband,
he married the charming girl, with the consent of her father, who
hastened to give his approval to the match. Doctor Rouget, delighted
to hear that matters were going beyond his expectations,--for his
wife, on the death of her brother, had become sole heiress of the
Descoings,--rushed to Paris, not so much to be present at the wedding
as to see that the marriage contract was drawn to suit him. The ardent
and disinterested love of citizen Bridau gave carte blanche to the
perfidious doctor, who made the most of his son-in-law's blindness, as
the following history will show.

Madame Rouget, or, to speak more correctly, the doctor, inherited all
the property, landed and personal, of Monsieur and Madame Descoings
the elder, who died within two years of each other; and soon after
that, Rouget got the better, as we may say, of his wife, for she died
at the beginning of the year 1799. So he had vineyards and he bought
farms, he owned iron-works and he sold fleeces. His well-beloved son
was stupidly incapable of doing anything; but the father destined him
for the state in life of a land proprietor and allowed him to grow up
in wealth and silliness, certain that the lad would know as much as
the wisest if he simply let himself live and die. After 1799, the
cipherers of Issoudun put, at the very least, thirty thousand francs'
income to the doctor's credit. From the time of his wife's death he
led a debauched life, though he regulated it, so to speak, and kept it
within the closed doors of his own house. This man, endowed with "strength
of character," died in 1805, and God only knows what the townspeople
of Issoudun said about him then, and how many anecdotes they related
of his horrible private life. Jean-Jacques Rouget, whom his father,
recognizing his stupidity, had latterly treated with severity,
remained a bachelor for certain reasons, the explanation of which will
form an important part of this history. His celibacy was partly his
father's fault, as we shall see later.

Meantime, it is well to inquire into the results of the secret
vengeance the doctor took on a daughter whom he did not recognize as
his own, but who, you must understand at once, was legitimately his.
Not a person in Issoudun had noticed one of those capricious facts
that make the whole subject of generation a vast abyss in which
science flounders. Agathe bore a strong likeness to the mother of
Doctor Rouget. Just as gout is said to skip a generation and pass from
grandfather to grandson, resemblances not uncommonly follow the same

In like manner, the eldest of Agathe's children, who physically
resembled his mother, had the moral qualities of his grandfather,
Doctor Rouget. We will leave the solution of this problem to the
twentieth century, with a fine collection of microscopic animalculae;
our descendants may perhaps write as much nonsense as the scientific
schools of the nineteenth century have uttered on this mysterious and
perplexing question.

Agathe Rouget attracted the admiration of everyone by a face destined,
like that of Mary, the mother of our Lord, to continue ever virgin,
even after marriage. Her portrait, still to be seen in the atelier of
Bridau, shows a perfect oval and a clear whiteness of complexion,
without the faintest tinge of color, in spite of her golden hair. More
than one artist, looking at the pure brow, the discreet, composed
mouth, the delicate nose, the small ears, the long lashes, and the
dark-blue eyes filled with tenderness,--in short, at the whole
countenance expressive of placidity,--has asked the great artist, "Is
that a copy of a Raphael?" No man ever acted under a truer inspiration
than the minister's secretary when he married this young girl. Agathe
was an embodiment of the ideal housekeeper brought up in the provinces
and never parted from her mother. Pious, though far from
sanctimonious, she had no other education than that given to women by
the Church. Judged, by ordinary standards, she was an accomplished
wife, yet her ignorance of life paved the way for great misfortunes.
The epitaph on the Roman matron, "She did needlework and kept the
house," gives a faithful picture of her simple, pure, and tranquil

Under the Consulate, Bridau attached himself fanatically to Napoleon,
who placed him at the head of a department in the ministry of the
interior in 1804, a year before the death of Doctor Rouget. With a
salary of twelve thousand francs and very handsome emoluments, Bridau
was quite indifferent to the scandalous settlement of the property at
Issoudun, by which Agathe was deprived of her rightful inheritance.
Six months before Doctor Rouget's death he had sold one-half of his
property to his son, to whom the other half was bequeathed as a gift,
and also in accordance with his rights as heir. An advance of fifty
thousand francs on her inheritance, made to Agathe at the time of her
marriage, represented her share of the property of her father and

Bridau idolized the Emperor, and served him with the devotion of a
Mohammedan for his prophet; striving to carry out the vast conceptions
of the modern demi-god, who, finding the whole fabric of France
destroyed, went to work to reconstruct everything. The new official
never showed fatigue, never cried "Enough." Projects, reports, notes,
studies, he accepted all, even the hardest labors, happy in the
consciousness of aiding his Emperor. He loved him as a man, he adored
him as a sovereign, and he would never allow the least criticism of
his acts or his purposes.

From 1804 to 1808, the Bridaus lived in a handsome suite of rooms on
the Quai Voltaire, a few steps from the ministry of the interior and
close to the Tuileries. A cook and footman were the only servants of
the household during this period of Madame Bridau's grandeur. Agathe,
early afoot, went to market with her cook. While the latter did the
rooms, she prepared the breakfast. Bridau never went to the ministry
before eleven o'clock. As long as their union lasted, his wife took
the same unwearying pleasure in preparing for him an exquisite
breakfast, the only meal he really enjoyed. At all seasons and in all
weathers, Agathe watched her husband from the window as he walked
toward his office, and never drew in her head until she had seen him
turn the corner of the rue du Bac. Then she cleared the breakfast-
table herself, gave an eye to the arrangement of the rooms, dressed
for the day, played with her children and took them to walk, or
received the visits of friends; all the while waiting in spirit for
Bridau's return. If her husband brought him important business that
had to be attended to, she would station herself close to the writing-
table in his study, silent as a statue, knitting while he wrote,
sitting up as late as he did, and going to bed only a few moments
before him. Occasionally, the pair went to some theatre, occupying one
of the ministerial boxes. On those days, they dined at a restaurant,
and the gay scenes of that establishment never ceased to give Madame
Bridau the same lively pleasure they afford to provincials who are new
to Paris. Agathe, who was obliged to accept the formal dinners
sometimes given to the head of a department in a ministry, paid due
attention to the luxurious requirements of the then mode of dress, but
she took off the rich apparel with delight when she returned home, and
resumed the simple garb of a provincial. One day in the week,
Thursday, Bridau received his friends, and he also gave a grand ball,
annually, on Shrove Tuesday.

These few words contain the whole history of their conjugal life,
which had but three events; the births of two children, born three
years apart, and the death of Bridau, who died in 1808, killed by
overwork at the very moment when the Emperor was about to appoint him
director-general, count, and councillor of state. At this period of
his reign, Napoleon was particularly absorbed in the affairs of the
interior; he overwhelmed Bridau with work, and finally wrecked the
health of that dauntless bureaucrat. The Emperor, of whom Bridau had
never asked a favor, made inquiries into his habits and fortune.
Finding that this devoted servant literally had nothing but his
situation, Napoleon recognized him as one of the incorruptible natures
which raised the character of his government and gave moral weight to
it, and he wished to surprise him by the gift of some distinguished
reward. But the effort to complete a certain work, involving immense
labor, before the departure of the Emperor for Spain caused the death
of the devoted servant, who was seized with an inflammatory fever.
When the Emperor, who remained in Paris for a few days after his
return to prepare for the campaign of 1809, was told of Bridau's
death he said: "There are men who can never be replaced." Struck by
the spectacle of a devotion which could receive none of the brilliant
recognitions that reward a soldier, the Emperor resolved to create an
order to requite civil services, just as he had already created the
Legion of honor to reward the military. The impression he received
from the death of Bridau led him to plan the order of the Reunion. He
had not time, however, to mature this aristocratic scheme, the
recollection of which is now so completely effaced that many of my
readers may ask what were its insignia: the order was worn with a blue
ribbon. The Emperor called it the Reunion, under the idea of uniting
the order of the Golden Fleece of Spain with the order of the Golden
Fleece of Austria. "Providence," said a Prussian diplomatist, "took
care to frustrate the profanation."

After Bridau's death the Emperor inquired into the circumstances of
his widow. Her two sons each received a scholarship in the Imperial
Lyceum, and the Emperor paid the whole costs of their education from
his privy purse. He gave Madame Bridau a pension of four thousand
francs, intending, no doubt, to advance the fortune of her sons in
future years.

From the time of her marriage to the death of her husband, Agathe had
held no communication with Issoudun. She lost her mother just as she
was on the point of giving birth to her youngest son, and when her
father, who, as she well knew, loved her little, died, the coronation
of the Emperor was at hand, and that event gave Bridau so much
additional work that she was unwilling to leave him. Her brother,
Jean-Jacques Rouget, had not written to her since she left Issoudun.
Though grieved by the tacit repudiation of her family, Agathe had come
to think seldom of those who never thought of her. Once a year she
received a letter from her godmother, Madame Hochon, to whom she
replied with commonplaces, paying no heed to the advice which that
pious and excellent woman gave to her, disguised in cautious words.

Some time before the death of Doctor Rouget, Madame Hochon had written
to her goddaughter warning her that she would get nothing from her
father's estate unless she gave a power of attorney to Monsieur
Hochon. Agathe was very reluctant to harass her brother. Whether it
were that Bridau thought the spoliation of his wife in accordance with
the laws and customs of Berry, or that, high-minded as he was, he
shared the magnanimity of his wife, certain it is that he would not
listen to Roguin, his notary, who advised him to take advantage of his
ministerial position to contest the deeds by which the father had
deprived the daughter of her legitimate inheritance. Husband and wife
thus tacitly sanctioned what was done at Issoudun. Nevertheless,
Roguin had forced Bridau to reflect upon the future interests of his
wife which were thus compromised. He saw that if he died before her,
Agathe would be left without property, and this led him to look into
his own affairs. He found that between 1793 and 1805 his wife and he
had been obliged to use nearly thirty thousand of the fifty thousand
francs in cash which old Rouget had given to his daughter at the time
of her marriage. He at once invested the remaining twenty thousand in
the public funds, then quoted at forty, and from this source Agathe
received about two thousand francs a year. As a widow, Madame Bridau
could live suitably on an income of six thousand francs. With
provincial good sense, she thought of changing her residence,
dismissing the footman, and keeping no servant except a cook; but her
intimate friend, Madame Descoings, who insisted on being considered
her aunt, sold her own establishment and came to live with Agathe,
turning the study of the late Bridau into her bedroom.

The two widows clubbed their revenues, and so were in possession of a
joint income of twelve thousand francs a year. This seems a very
simple and natural proceeding. But nothing in life is more deserving
of attention than the things that are called natural; we are on our
guard against the unnatural and extraordinary. For this reason, you
will find men of experience--lawyers, judges, doctors, and priests--
attaching immense importance to simple matters; and they are often
thought over-scrupulous. But the serpent amid flowers is one of the
finest myths that antiquity has bequeathed for the guidance of our
lives. How often we hear fools, trying to excuse themselves in their
own eyes or in the eyes of others, exclaiming, "It was all so natural
that any one would have been taken in."

In 1809, Madame Descoings, who never told her age, was sixty-five. In
her heyday she had been popularly called a beauty, and was now one of
those rare women whom time respects. She owed to her excellent
constitution the privilege of preserving her good looks, which,
however, would not bear close examination. She was of medium height,
plump, and fresh, with fine shoulders and a rather rosy complexion.
Her blond hair, bordering on chestnut, showed, in spite of her
husband's catastrophe, not a tinge of gray. She loved good cheer, and
liked to concoct nice little made dishes; yet, fond as she was of
eating, she also adored the theatre and cherished a vice which she
wrapped in impenetrable mystery--she bought into lotteries. Can that
be the abyss of which mythology warns us under the fable of the
Danaides and their cask? Madame Descoings, like other women who are
lucky enough to keep young for many years, spend rather too much upon
her dress; but aside from these trifling defects she was the
pleasantest of women to live with. Of every one's opinion, never
opposing anybody, her kindly and communicative gayety gave pleasure to
all. She had, moreover, a Parisian quality which charmed the retired
clerks and elderly merchants of her circle,--she could take and give a
jest. If she did not marry a third time it was no doubt the fault of
the times. During the wars of the Empire, marrying men found rich and
handsome girls too easily to trouble themselves about women of sixty.

Madame Descoings, always anxious to cheer Madame Bridau, often took
the latter to the theatre, or to drive; prepared excellent little
dinners for her delectation, and even tried to marry her to her own
son by her first husband, Bixiou. Alas! to do this, she was forced to
reveal a terrible secret, carefully kept by her, by her late husband,
and by her notary. The young and beautiful Madame Descoings, who
passed for thirty-six years old, had a son who was thirty-five, named
Bixiou, already a widower, a major in the Twenty-Fourth Infantry, who
subsequently perished at Lutzen, leaving behind him an only son.
Madame Descoings, who only saw her grandson secretly, gave out that he
was the son of the first wife of her first husband. The revelation was
partly a prudential act; for this grandson was being educated with
Madame Bridau's sons at the Imperial Lyceum, where he had a half-
scholarship. The lad, who was clever and shrewd at school, soon after
made himself a great reputation as draughtsman and designer, and also
as a wit.

Agathe, who lived only for her children, declined to re-marry, as much
from good sense as from fidelity to her husband. But it is easier for
a woman to be a good wife than to be a good mother. A widow has two
tasks before her, whose duties clash: she is a mother, and yet she
must exercise parental authority. Few women are firm enough to
understand and practise this double duty. Thus it happened that
Agathe, notwithstanding her many virtues, was the innocent cause of
great unhappiness. In the first place, through her lack of
intelligence and the blind confidence to which such noble natures are
prone, Agathe fell a victim to Madame Descoings, who brought a
terrible misfortune on the family. That worthy soul was nursing up a
combination of three numbers called a "trey" in a lottery, and
lotteries give no credit to their customers. As manager of the joint
household, she was able to pay up her stakes with the money intended
for their current expenses, and she went deeper and deeper into debt,
with the hope of ultimately enriching her grandson Bixiou, her dear
Agathe, and the little Bridaus. When the debts amounted to ten
thousand francs, she increased her stakes, trusting that her favorite
trey, which had not turned up in nine years, would come at last, and
fill to overflowing the abysmal deficit.

From that moment the debt rolled up rapidly. When it reached twenty
thousand francs, Madame Descoings lost her head, still failing to win
the trey. She tried to mortgage her own property to pay her niece, but
Roguin, who was her notary, showed her the impossibility of carrying
out that honorable intention. The late Doctor Rouget had laid hold of
the property of the brother-in-law after the grocer's execution, and
had, as it were, disinherited Madame Descoings by securing to her a
life-interest on the property of his own son, Jean-Jacques Rouget. No
money-lender would think of advancing twenty thousand francs to a
woman sixty-six years of age, on an annuity of about four thousand, at
a period when ten per cent could easily be got for an investment. So
one morning Madame Descoings fell at the feet of her niece, and with
sobs confessed the state of things. Madame Bridau did not reproach
her; she sent away the footman and cook, sold all but the bare
necessities of her furniture, sold also three-fourths of her
government funds, paid off the debts, and bade farewell to her


One of the worst corners in all Paris is undoubtedly that part of the
rue Mazarin which lies between the rue Guenegard and its junction with
the rue de Seine, behind the palace of the Institute. The high gray
walls of the college and of the library which Cardinal Mazarin
presented to the city of Paris, and which the French Academy was in
after days to inhabit, cast chill shadows over this angle of the
street, where the sun seldom shines, and the north wind blows. The
poor ruined widow came to live on the third floor of a house standing
at this damp, dark, cold corner. Opposite, rose the Institute
buildings, in which were the dens of ferocious animals known to the
bourgeoisie under the name of artists,--under that of tyro, or rapin,
in the studios. Into these dens they enter rapins, but they may come
forth prix de Rome. The transformation does not take place without
extraordinary uproar and disturbance at the time of year when the
examinations are going on, and the competitors are shut up in their
cells. To win a prize, they were obliged, within a given time, to
make, if a sculptor, a clay model; if a painter, a picture such as may
be seen at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts; if a musician, a cantata; if an
architect, the plans for a public building. At the time when we are
penning the words, this menagerie has already been removed from these
cold and cheerless buildings, and taken to the elegant Palais des
Beaux-Arts, which stands near by.

From the windows of Madame Bridau's new abode, a glance could
penetrate the depths of those melancholy barred cages. To the north,
the view was shut in by the dome of the Institute; looking up the
street, the only distraction to the eye was a file of hackney-coaches,
which stood at the upper end of the rue Mazarin. After a while, the
widow put boxes of earth in front of her windows, and cultivated those
aerial gardens that police regulations forbid, though their vegetable
products purify the atmosphere. The house, which backed up against
another fronting on the rue de Seine, was necessarily shallow, and the
staircase wound round upon itself. The third floor was the last. Three
windows to three rooms, namely, a dining-room, a small salon, and a
chamber on one side of the landing; on the other, a little kitchen,
and two single rooms; above, an immense garret without partitions.
Madame Bridau chose this lodging for three reasons: economy, for it
cost only four hundred francs a year, so that she took a lease of it
for nine years; proximity to her sons' school, the Imperial Lyceum
being at a short distance; thirdly, because it was in the quarter to
which she was used.

The inside of the appartement was in keeping with the general look of
the house. The dining-room, hung with a yellow paper covered with
little green flowers, and floored with tiles that were not glazed,
contained nothing that was not strictly necessary,--namely, a table,
two sideboards, and six chairs, brought from the other appartement.
The salon was adorned with an Aubusson carpet given to Bridau when the
ministry of the interior was refurnished. To the furniture of this
room the widow added one of those commonplace mahogany sofas with the
Egyptian heads that Jacob Desmalter manufactured by the gross in 1806,
covering them with a silken green stuff bearing a design of white
geometric circles. Above this piece of furniture hung a portrait of
Bridau, done in pastel by the hand of an amateur, which at once
attracted the eye. Though art might have something to say against it,
no one could fail to recognize the firmness of the noble and obscure
citizen upon that brow. The serenity of the eyes, gentle, yet proud,
was well given; the sagacious mind, to which the prudent lips bore
testimony, the frank smile, the atmosphere of the man of whom the
Emperor had said, "Justum et tenacem," had all been caught, if not
with talent, at least with fidelity. Studying that face, an observer
could see that the man had done his duty. His countenance bore signs
of the incorruptibility which we attribute to several men who served
the Republic. On the opposite wall, over a card-table, flashed a
picture of the Emperor in brilliant colors, done by Vernet; Napoleon
was riding rapidly, attended by his escort.

Agathe had bestowed upon herself two large birdcages; one filled with
canaries, the other with Java sparrows. She had given herself up to
this juvenile fancy since the loss of her husband, irreparable to her,
as, in fact, it was to many others. By the end of three months, her
widowed chamber had become what it was destined to remain until the
appointed day when she left it forever,--a litter of confusion which
words are powerless to describe. Cats were domiciled on the sofa. The
canaries, occasionally let loose, left their commas on the furniture.
The poor dear woman scattered little heaps of millet and bits of
chickweed about the room, and put tidbits for the cats in broken
saucers. Garments lay everywhere. The room breathed of the provinces
and of constancy. Everything that once belonged to Bridau was
scrupulously preserved. Even the implements in his desk received the
care which the widow of a paladin might have bestowed upon her
husband's armor. One slight detail here will serve to bring the tender
devotion of this woman before the reader's mind. She had wrapped up a
pen and sealed the package, on which she wrote these words, "Last pen
used by my dear husband." The cup from which he drank his last draught
was on the fireplace; caps and false hair were tossed, at a later
period, over the glass globes which covered these precious relics.
After Bridau's death not a trace of coquetry, not even a woman's
ordinary care of her person, was left in the young widow of thirty-
five. Parted from the only man she had ever known, esteemed, and
loved, from one who had never caused her the slightest unhappiness,
she was no longer conscious of her womanhood; all things were as
nothing to her; she no longer even thought of her dress. Nothing was
ever more simply done or more complete than this laying down of
conjugal happiness and personal charm. Some human beings obtain
through love the power of transferring their self--their I--to the
being of another; and when death takes that other, no life of their
own is possible for them.

Agathe, who now lived only for her children, was infinitely sad at the
thought of the privations this financial ruin would bring upon them.
From the time of her removal to the rue Mazarin a shade of melancholy
came upon her face, which made it very touching. She hoped a little in
the Emperor; but the Emperor at that time could do no more than he was
already doing; he was giving three hundred francs a year to each child
from his privy purse, besides the scholarships.

As for the brilliant Descoings, she occupied an appartement on the
second floor similar to that of her niece above her. She had made
Madame Bridau an assignment of three thousand francs out of her
annuity. Roguin, the notary, attended to this in Madame Bridau's
interest; but it would take seven years of such slow repayment to make
good the loss. The Descoings, thus reduced to an income of twelve
hundred francs, lived with her niece in a small way. These excellent
but timid creatures employed a woman-of-all-work for the morning hours
only. Madame Descoings, who liked to cook, prepared the dinner. In the
evenings a few old friends, persons employed at the ministry who owed
their places to Bridau, came for a game of cards with the two widows.
Madame Descoings still cherished her trey, which she declared was
obstinate about turning up. She expected, by one grand stroke, to
repay the enforced loan she had made upon her niece. She was fonder of
the little Bridaus than she was of her grandson Bixiou,--partly from a
sense of the wrong she had done them, partly because she felt the
kindness of her niece, who, under her worst deprivations, never
uttered a word of reproach. So Philippe and Joseph were cossetted, and
the old gambler in the Imperial Lottery of France (like others who
have a vice or a weakness to atone for) cooked them nice little
dinners with plenty of sweets. Later on, Philippe and Joseph could
extract from her pocket, with the utmost facility, small sums of
money, which the younger used for pencils, paper, charcoal and prints,
the elder to buy tennis-shoes, marbles, twine, and pocket-knives.
Madame Descoings's passion forced her to be content with fifty francs
a month for her domestic expenses, so as to gamble with the rest.

On the other hand, Madame Bridau, motherly love, kept her expenses
down to the same sum. By way of penance for her former over-
confidence, she heroically cut off her own little enjoyments. As with
other timid souls of limited intelligence, one shock to her feelings
rousing her distrust led her to exaggerate a defect in her character
until it assumed the consistency of a virtue. The Emperor, she said to
herself, might forget them; he might die in battle; her pension, at
any rate, ceased with her life. She shuddered at the risk her children
ran of being left alone in the world without means. Quite incapable of
understanding Roguin when he explained to her that in seven years
Madame Descoings's assignment would replace the money she had sold out
of the Funds, she persisted in trusting neither the notary nor her
aunt, nor even the government; she believed in nothing but herself and
the privations she was practising. By laying aside three thousand
francs every year from her pension, she would have thirty thousand
francs at the end of ten years; which would give fifteen hundred a
year to her children. At thirty-six, she might expect to live twenty
years longer; and if she kept to the same system of economy she might
leave to each child enough for the bare necessaries of life.

Thus the two widows passed from hollow opulence to voluntary poverty,
--one under the pressure of a vice, the other through the promptings
of the purest virtue. None of these petty details are useless in
teaching the lesson which ought to be learned from this present
history, drawn as it is from the most commonplace interests of life,
but whose bearings are, it may be, only the more widespread. The view
from the windows into the student dens; the tumult of the rapins
below; the necessity of looking up at the sky to escape the miserable
sights of the damp angle of the street; the presence of that portrait,
full of soul and grandeur despite the workmanship of an amateur
painter; the sight of the rich colors, now old and harmonious, in that
calm and placid home; the preference of the mother for her eldest
child; her opposition to the tastes of the younger; in short, the
whole body of facts and circumstances which make the preamble of this
history are perhaps the generating causes to which we owe Joseph
Bridau, one of the greatest painters of the modern French school of

Philippe, the elder of the two sons, was strikingly like his mother.
Though a blond lad, with blue eyes, he had the daring look which is
readily taken for intrepidity and courage. Old Claparon, who entered
the ministry of the interior at the same time as Bridau, and was one
of the faithful friends who played whist every night with the two
widows, used to say of Philippe two or three times a month, giving him
a tap on the cheek, "Here's a young rascal who'll stand to his guns!"
The boy, thus stimulated, naturally and out of bravado, assumed a
resolute manner. That turn once given to his character, he became very
adroit at all bodily exercises; his fights at the Lyceum taught him
the endurance and contempt for pain which lays the foundation of
military valor. He also acquired, very naturally, a distaste for
study; public education being unable to solve the difficult problem of
developing "pari passu" the body and the mind.

Agathe believed that the purely physical resemblance which Philippe
bore to her carried with it a moral likeness; and she confidently
expected him to show at a future day her own delicacy of feeling,
heightened by the vigor of manhood. Philippe was fifteen years old
when his mother moved into the melancholy appartement in the rue
Mazarin; and the winning ways of a lad of that age went far to confirm
the maternal beliefs. Joseph, three years younger, was like his
father, but only on the defective side. In the first place, his thick
black hair was always in disorder, no matter what pains were taken
with it; while Philippe's, notwithstanding his vivacity, was
invariably neat. Then, by some mysterious fatality, Joseph could not
keep his clothes clean; dress him in new clothes, and he immediately
made them look like old ones. The elder, on the other hand, took care
of his things out of mere vanity. Unconsciously, the mother acquired a
habit of scolding Joseph and holding up his brother as an example to
him. Agathe did not treat the two children alike; when she went to
fetch them from school, the thought in her mind as to Joseph always
was, "What sort of state shall I find him in?" These trifles drove her
heart into the gulf of maternal preference.

No one among the very ordinary persons who made the society of the two
widows--neither old Du Bruel nor old Claparon, nor Desroches the
father, nor even the Abbe Loraux, Agathe's confessor--noticed Joseph's
faculty for observation. Absorbed in the line of his own tastes, the
future colorist paid no attention to anything that concerned himself.
During his childhood this disposition was so like torpor that his
father grew uneasy about him. The remarkable size of the head and the
width of the brow roused a fear that the child might be liable to
water on the brain. His distressful face, whose originality was
thought ugliness by those who had no eye for the moral value of a
countenance, wore rather a sullen expression during his childhood. The
features, which developed later in life, were pinched, and the close
attention the child paid to what went on about him still further
contracted them. Philippe flattered his mother's vanity, but Joseph
won no compliments. Philippe sparkled with the clever sayings and
lively answers that lead parents to believe their boys will turn out
remarkable men; Joseph was taciturn, and a dreamer. The mother hoped
great things of Philippe, and expected nothing of Joseph.

Joseph's predilection for art was developed by a very commonplace
incident. During the Easter holidays of 1812, as he was coming home
from a walk in the Tuileries with his brother and Madame Descoings, he
saw a pupil drawing a caricature of some professor on the wall of the
Institute, and stopped short with admiration at the charcoal sketch,
which was full of satire. The next day the child stood at the window
watching the pupils as they entered the building by the door on the
rue Mazarin; then he ran downstairs and slipped furtively into the
long courtyard of the Institute, full of statues, busts, half-finished
marbles, plasters, and baked clays; at all of which he gazed
feverishly, for his instinct was awakened, and his vocation stirred
within him. He entered a room on the ground-floor, the door of which
was half open; and there he saw a dozen young men drawing from a
statue, who at once began to make fun of him.

"Hi! little one," cried the first to see him, taking the crumbs of his
bread and scattering them at the child.

"Whose child is he?"

"Goodness, how ugly!"

For a quarter of an hour Joseph stood still and bore the brunt of much
teasing in the atelier of the great sculptor, Chaudet. But after
laughing at him for a time, the pupils were struck with his
persistency and with the expression of his face. They asked him what
he wanted. Joseph answered that he wished to know how to draw;
thereupon they all encouraged him. Won by such friendliness, the child
told them he was Madame Bridau's son.

"Oh! if you are Madame Bridau's son," they cried, from all parts of
the room, "you will certainly be a great man. Long live the son of
Madame Bridau! Is your mother pretty? If you are a sample of her, she
must be stylish!"

"Ha! you want to be an artist?" said the eldest pupil, coming up to
Joseph, "but don't you know that that requires pluck; you'll have to
bear all sorts of trials,--yes, trials,--enough to break your legs and
arms and soul and body. All the fellows you see here have gone through
regular ordeals. That one, for instance, he went seven days without
eating! Let me see, now, if you can be an artist."

He took one of the child's arms and stretched it straight up in the
air; then he placed the other arm as if Joseph were in the act of
delivering a blow with his fist.

"Now that's what we call the telegraph trial," said the pupil. "If you
can stand like that, without lowering or changing the position of your
arms for a quarter of an hour, then you'll have proved yourself a
plucky one."

"Courage, little one, courage!" cried all the rest. "You must suffer
if you want to be an artist."

Joseph, with the good faith of his thirteen years, stood motionless
for five minutes, all the pupils gazing solemnly at him.

"There! you are moving," cried one.

"Steady, steady, confound you!" cried another.

"The Emperor Napoleon stood a whole month as you see him there," said
a third, pointing to the fine statue by Chaudet, which was in the

That statue, which represents the Emperor standing with the Imperial
sceptre in his hand, was torn down in 1814 from the column it
surmounted so well.

At the end of ten minutes the sweat stood in drops on Joseph's
forehead. At that moment a bald-headed little man, pale and sickly in
appearance, entered the atelier, where respectful silence reigned at

"What you are about, you urchins?" he exclaimed, as he looked at the
youthful martyr.

"That is a good little fellow, who is posing," said the tall pupil who
had placed Joseph.

"Are you not ashamed to torture a poor child in that way?" said
Chaudet, lowering Joseph's arms. "How long have you been standing
there?" he asked the boy, giving him a friendly little pat on the

"A quarter of an hour."

"What brought you here?"

"I want to be an artist."

"Where do you belong? where do you come from?"

"From mamma's house."

"Oh! mamma!" cried the pupils.

"Silence at the easels!" cried Chaudet. "Who is your mamma?"

"She is Madame Bridau. My papa, who is dead, was a friend of the
Emperor; and if you will teach me to draw, the Emperor will pay all
you ask for it."

"His father was head of a department at the ministry of the Interior,"
exclaimed Chaudet, struck by a recollection. "So you want to be an
artist, at your age?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Well, come here just as much as you like; we'll amuse you. Give him a
board, and paper, and chalks, and let him alone. You are to know, you
young scamps, that his father did me a service. Here, Corde-a-puits,
go and get some cakes and sugar-plums," he said to the pupil who had
tortured Joseph, giving him some small change. "We'll see if you are
to be artist by the way you gobble up the dainties," added the
sculptor, chucking Joseph under the chin.

Then he went round examining the pupils' works, followed by the child,
who looked and listened, and tried to understand him. The sweets were
brought, Chaudet, himself, the child, and the whole studio all had
their teeth in them; and Joseph was petted quite as much as he had
been teased. The whole scene, in which the rough play and real heart
of artists were revealed, and which the boy instinctively understood,
made a great impression on his mind. The apparition of the sculptor,--
for whom the Emperor's protection opened a way to future glory, closed
soon after by his premature death,--was like a vision to little
Joseph. The child said nothing to his mother about this adventure, but
he spent two hours every Sunday and every Thursday in Chaudet's
atelier. From that time forth, Madame Descoings, who humored the
fancies of the two cherubim, kept Joseph supplied with pencils and red
chalks, prints and drawing-paper. At school, the future colorist
sketched his masters, drew his comrades, charcoaled the dormitories,
and showed surprising assiduity in the drawing-class. Lemire, the
drawing-master, struck not only with the lad's inclination but also
with his actual progress, came to tell Madame Bridau of her son's
faculty. Agathe, like a true provincial, who knows as little of art as
she knows much of housekeeping, was terrified. When Lemire left her,
she burst into tears.

"Ah!" she cried, when Madame Descoings went to ask what was the
matter. "What is to become of me! Joseph, whom I meant to make a
government clerk, whose career was all marked out for him at the
ministry of the interior, where, protected by his father's memory, he
might have risen to be chief of a division before he was twenty-five,
he, my boy, he wants to be a painter,--a vagabond! I always knew that
child would give me nothing but trouble."

Madame Descoings confessed that for several months past she had
encouraged Joseph's passion, aiding and abetting his Sunday and
Thursday visits to the Institute. At the Salon, to which she had taken
him, the little fellow had shown an interest in the pictures, which
was, she declared, nothing short of miraculous.

"If he understands painting at thirteen, my dear," she said, "your
Joseph will be a man of genius."

"Yes; and see what genius did for his father,--killed him with
overwork at forty!"

At the close of autumn, just as Joseph was entering his fourteenth
year, Agathe, contrary to Madame Descoings's entreaties, went to see
Chaudet, and requested that he would cease to debauch her son. She
found the sculptor in a blue smock, modelling his last statue; he
received the widow of the man who formerly had served him at a
critical moment, rather roughly; but, already at death's door, he was
struggling with passionate ardor to do in a few hours work he could
hardly have accomplished in several months. As Madame Bridau entered,
he had just found an effect long sought for, and was handling his
tools and clay with spasmodic jerks and movements that seemed to the
ignorant Agathe like those of a maniac. At any other time Chaudet
would have laughed; but now, as he heard the mother bewailing the
destiny he had opened to her child, abusing art, and insisting that
Joseph should no longer be allowed to enter the atelier, he burst into
a holy wrath.

"I was under obligations to your deceased husband, I wished to help
his son, to watch his first steps in the noblest of all careers," he
cried. "Yes, madame, learn, if you do not know it, that a great artist
is a king, and more than a king; he is happier, he is independent, he
lives as he likes, he reigns in the world of fancy. Your son has a
glorious future before him. Faculties like his are rare; they are only
disclosed at his age in such beings as the Giottos, Raphaels, Titians,
Rubens, Murillos,--for, in my opinion, he will make a better painter
than sculptor. God of heaven! if I had such a son, I should be as
happy as the Emperor is to have given himself the King of Rome. Well,
you are mistress of your child's fate. Go your own way, madame; make
him a fool, a miserable quill-driver, tie him to a desk, and you've
murdered him! But I hope, in spite if all your efforts, that he will
stay an artist. A true vocation is stronger than all the obstacles
that can be opposed to it. Vocation! why the very word means a call;
ay, the election of God himself! You will make your child unhappy,
that's all." He flung the clay he no longer needed violently into a
tub, and said to his model, "That will do for to-day."

Agathe raised her eyes and saw, in a corner of the atelier where her
glance had not before penetrated, a nude woman sitting on a stool, the
sight of whom drove her away horrified.

"You are not to have the little Bridau here any more," said Chaudet to
his pupils, "it annoys his mother."

"Eugh!" they all cried, as Agathe closed the door.

No sooner did the students of sculpture and painting find out that
Madame Bridau did not wish her son to be an artist, than their whole
happiness centred on getting Joseph among them. In spite of a promise
not to go to the Institute which his mother exacted from him, the
child often slipped into Regnauld the painter's studio, where he was
encouraged to daub canvas. When the widow complained that the bargain
was not kept, Chaudet's pupils assured her that Regnauld was not
Chaudet, and they hadn't the bringing up of her son, with other
impertinences; and the atrocious young scamps composed a song with a
hundred and thirty-seven couplets on Madame Bridau.

On the evening of that sad day Agathe refused to play at cards, and
sat on her sofa plunged in such grief that the tears stood in her
handsome eyes.

"What is the matter, Madame Bridau?" asked old Claparon.

"She thinks her boy will have to beg his bread because he has got the
bump of painting," said Madame Descoings; "but, for my part, I am not
the least uneasy about the future of my step-son, little Bixiou, who
has a passion for drawing. Men are born to get on."

"You are right," said the hard and severe Desroches, who, in spite of
his talents, had never himself got on in the position of assistant-
head of a department. "Happily I have only one son; otherwise, with my
eighteen hundred francs a year, and a wife who makes barely twelve
hundred out of her stamped-paper office, I don't know what would
become of me. I have just placed my boy as under-clerk to a lawyer; he
gets twenty- five francs a month and his breakfast. I give him as much
more, and he dines and sleeps at home. That's all he gets; he must
manage for himself, but he'll make his way. I keep the fellow harder
at work than if he were at school, and some day he will be a
barrister. When I give him money to go to the theatre, he is as happy
as a king and kisses me. Oh, I keep a tight hand on him, and he
renders me an account of all he spends. You are too good to your
children, Madame Bridau; if your son wants to go through hardships and
privations, let him; they'll make a man of him."

"As for my boy," said Du Bruel, a former chief of a division, who had
just retired on a pension, "he is only sixteen; his mother dotes on
him; but I shouldn't listen to his choosing a profession at his age,--
a mere fancy, a notion that may pass off. In my opinion, boys should
be guided and controlled."

"Ah, monsieur! you are rich, you are a man, and you have but one son,"
said Agathe.

"Faith!" said Claparon, "children do tyrannize over us--over our
hearts, I mean. Mine makes me furious; he has nearly ruined me, and
now I won't have anything to do with him--it's a sort of independence.
Well, he is the happier for it, and so am I. That fellow was partly
the cause of his mother's death. He chose to be a commercial
traveller; and the trade just suited him, for he was no sooner in the
house than he wanted to be out of it; he couldn't keep in one place,
and he wouldn't learn anything. All I ask of God is that I may die
before he dishonors my name. Those who have no children lose many
pleasures, but they escape great sufferings."

"And these men are fathers!" thought Agathe, weeping anew.

"What I am trying to show you, my dear Madame Bridau, is that you had
better let your boy be a painter; if not, you will only waste your

"If you were able to coerce him," said the sour Desroches, "I should
advise you to oppose his tastes; but weak as I see you are, you had
better let him daub if he likes."

"Console yourself, Agathe," said Madame Descoings, "Joseph will turn
out a great man."

After this discussion, which was like all discussions, the widow's
friends united in giving her one and the same advice; which advice did
not in the least relieve her anxieties. They advised her to let Joseph
follow his bent.

"If he doesn't turn out a genius," said Du Bruel, who always tried to
please Agathe, "you can then get him into some government office."

When Madame Descoings accompanied the old clerks to the door she
assured them, at the head of the stairs, that they were "Grecian

"Madame Bridau ought to be glad her son is willing to do anything,"
said Claparon.

"Besides," said Desroches, "if God preserves the Emperor, Joseph will
always be looked after. Why should she worry?"

"She is timid about everything that concerns her children," answered
Madame Descoings. "Well, my good girl," she said, returning to Agathe,
"you see they are unanimous; why are you still crying?"

"If it was Philippe, I should have no anxiety. But you don't know what
goes on in that atelier; they have naked women!"

"I hope they keep good fires," said Madame Descoings.

A few days after this, the disasters of the retreat from Moscow became
known. Napoleon returned to Paris to organize fresh troops, and to ask
further sacrifices from the country. The poor mother was then plunged
into very different anxieties. Philippe, who was tired of school,
wanted to serve under the Emperor; he saw a review at the Tuileries,--
the last Napoleon ever held,--and he became infatuated with the idea
of a soldier's life. In those days military splendor, the show of
uniforms, the authority of epaulets, offered irresistible seductions
to a certain style of youth. Philippe thought he had the same vocation
for the army that his brother Joseph showed for art. Without his
mother's knowledge, he wrote a petition to the Emperor, which read as

Sire,--I am the son of your Bridau; eighteen years of age, five
feet six inches; I have good legs, a good constitution, and wish
to be one of your soldiers. I ask you to let me enter the army,

Within twenty-four hours, the Emperor had sent Philippe to the
Imperial Lyceum at Saint-Cyr, and six months later, in November, 1813,
he appointed him sub-lieutenant in a regiment of cavalry. Philippe
spent the greater part of that winter in cantonments, but as soon as
he knew how to ride a horse he was dispatched to the front, and went
eagerly. During the campaign in France he was made a lieutenant, after
an affair at the outposts where his bravery had saved his colonel's
life. The Emperor named him captain at the battle of La Fere-
Champenoise, and took him on his staff. Inspired by such promotion,
Philippe won the cross at Montereau. He witnessed Napoleon's farewell
at Fontainebleau, raved at the sight, and refused to serve the
Bourbons. When he returned to his mother, in July, 1814, he found her

Joseph's scholarship was withdrawn after the holidays, and Madame
Bridau, whose pension came from the Emperor's privy purse, vainly
entreated that it might be inscribed on the rolls of the ministry of
the interior. Joseph, more of a painter than ever, was delighted with
the turn of events, and entreated his mother to let him go to Monsieur
Regnauld, promising to earn his own living. He declared he was quite
sufficiently advanced in the second class to get on without rhetoric.
Philippe, a captain at nineteen and decorated, who had, moreover,
served the Emperor as an aide-de-camp in two battles, flattered the
mother's vanity immensely. Coarse, blustering, and without real merit
beyond the vulgar bravery of a cavalry officer, he was to her mind a
man of genius; whereas Joseph, puny and sickly, with unkempt hair and
absent mind, seeking peace, loving quiet, and dreaming of an artist's
glory, would only bring her, she thought, worries and anxieties.

The winter of 1814-1815 was a lucky one for Joseph. Secretly
encouraged by Madame Descoings and Bixiou, a pupil of Gros, he went to
work in the celebrated atelier of that painter, whence a vast variety
of talent issued in its day, and there he formed the closest intimacy
with Schinner. The return from Elba came; Captain Bridau joined the
Emperor at Lyons, accompanied him to the Tuileries, and was appointed
to the command of a squadron in the dragoons of the Guard. After the
battle of Waterloo--in which he was slightly wounded, and where he won
the cross of an officer of the Legion of honor--he happened to be near
Marshal Davoust at Saint-Denis, and was not with the army of the
Loire. In consequence of this, and through Davoust's intercession, his
cross and his rank were secured to him, but he was placed on half-pay.

Joseph, anxious about his future, studied all through this period with
an ardor which several times made him ill in the midst of these
tumultuous events.

"It is the smell of the paints," Agathe said to Madame Descoings. "He
ought to give up a business so injurious to his health."

However, all Agathe's anxieties were at this time for her son the
lieutenant-colonel. When she saw him again in 1816, reduced from the
salary of nine thousand francs (paid to a commander in the dragoons of
the Imperial Guard) to a half-pay of three hundred francs a month, she
fitted up her attic rooms for him, and spent her savings in doing so.
Philippe was one of the faithful Bonapartes of the cafe Lemblin, that
constitutional Boeotia; he acquired the habits, manners, style, and
life of a half-pay officer; indeed, like any other young man of
twenty-one, he exaggerated them, vowed in good earnest a mortal enmity
to the Bourbons, never reported himself at the War department, and
even refused opportunities which were offered to him for employment in
the infantry with his rank of lieutenant-colonel. In his mother's
eyes, Philippe seemed in all this to be displaying a noble character.

"The father himself could have done no more," she said.

Philippe's half-pay sufficed him; he cost nothing at home, whereas all
Joseph's expenses were paid by the two widows. From that moment,
Agathe's preference for Philippe was openly shown. Up to that time it
had been secret; but the persecution of this faithful servant of the
Emperor, the recollection of the wound received by her cherished son,
his courage in adversity, which, voluntary though it were, seemed to
her a glorious adversity, drew forth all Agathe's tenderness. The one
sentence, "He is unfortunate," explained and justified everything.
Joseph himself,--with the innate simplicity which superabounds in the
artist-soul in its opening years, and who was, moreover, brought up to
admire his big brother,--so far from being hurt by the preference of
their mother, encouraged it by sharing her worship of the hero who had
carried Napoleon's orders on two battlefields, and was wounded at
Waterloo. How could he doubt the superiority of the grand brother,
whom he had beheld in the green and gold uniform of the dragoons of
the Guard, commanding his squadron on the Champ de Mars?

Agathe, notwithstanding this preference, was an excellent mother. She
loved Joseph, though not blindly; she simply was unable to understand
him. Joseph adored his mother; Philippe let his mother adore him.
Towards her, the dragoon softened his military brutality; but he never
concealed the contempt he felt for Joseph,--expressing it, however, in
a friendly way. When he looked at his brother, weak and sickly as he
was at seventeen years of age, shrunken with determined toil, and
over-weighted with his powerful head, he nicknamed him "Cub."
Philippe's patronizing manners would have wounded any one less
carelessly indifferent than the artist, who had, moreover, a firm
belief in the goodness of heart which soldiers hid, he thought,
beneath a brutal exterior. Joseph did not yet know, poor boy, that
soldiers of genius are as gentle and courteous in manner as other
superior men in any walk of life. All genius is alike, wherever found.

"Poor boy!" said Philippe to his mother, "we mustn't plague him; let
him do as he likes."

To his mother's eyes the colonel's contempt was a mark of fraternal

"Philippe will always love and protect his brother," she thought to


In 1816, Joseph obtained his mother's permission to convert the garret
which adjoined his attic room into an atelier, and Madame Descoings
gave him a little money for the indispensable requirements of the
painter's trade;--in the minds of the two widows, the art of painting
was nothing but a trade. With the feeling and ardor of his vocation,
the lad himself arranged his humble atelier. Madame Descoings
persuaded the owner of the house to put a skylight in the roof. The
garret was turned into a vast hall painted in chocolate-color by
Joseph himself. On the walls he hung a few sketches. Agathe
contributed, not without reluctance, an iron stove; so that her son
might be able to work at home, without, however, abandoning the studio
of Gros, nor that of Schinner.

The constitutional party, supported chiefly by officers on half-pay
and the Bonapartists, were at this time inciting "emeutes" around the
Chamber of Deputies, on behalf of the Charter, though no one actually
wanted it. Several conspiracies were brewing. Philippe, who dabbled in
them, was arrested, and then released for want of proof; but the
minister of war cut short his half-pay by putting him on the active
list,--a step which might be called a form of discipline. France was
no longer safe; Philippe was liable to fall into some trap laid for
him by spies,--provocative agents, as they were called, being much
talked of in those days.

While Philippe played billiards in disaffected cafes, losing his time
and acquiring the habit of wetting his whistle with "little glasses"
of all sorts of liquors. Agathe lived in mortal terror for the safety
of the great man of the family. The Grecian sages were too much
accustomed to wend their nightly way up Madame Bridau's staircase,
finding the two widows ready and waiting, and hearing from them all
the news of their day, ever to break up the habit of coming to the
green salon for their game of cards. The ministry of the interior,
though purged of its former employes in 1816, had retained Claparon,
one of those cautious men, who whisper the news of the "Moniteur,"
adding invariably, "Don't quote me." Desroches, who had retired from
active service some time after old Du Bruel, was still battling for
his pension. The three friends, who were witnesses of Agathe's
distress, advised her to send the colonel to travel in foreign

"They talk about conspiracies, and your son, with his disposition,
will be certain to fall a victim in some of them; there is plenty of
treachery in these days."

"Philippe is cut from the wood the Emperor made into marshals," said
Du Bruel, in a low voice, looking cautiously about him; "and he
mustn't give up his profession. Let him serve in the East, in India--"

"Think of his health," said Agathe.

"Why doesn't he get some place, or business?" said old Desroches;
"there are plenty of private offices to be had. I am going as head of
a bureau in an insurance company, as soon as I have got my pension."

"Philippe is a soldier; he would not like to be any thing else," said
the warlike Agathe.

"Then he ought to have the sense to ask for employment--"

"And serve THESE OTHERS!" cried the widow. "Oh! I will never give him
that advice."

"You are wrong," said Du Bruel. "My son has just got an appointment
through the Duc de Navarreins. The Bourbons are very good to those who
are sincere in rallying to them. Your son could be appointed
lieutenant-colonel to a regiment."

"They only appoint nobles in the cavalry. Philippe would never rise to
be a colonel," said Madame Descoings.

Agathe, much alarmed, entreated Philippe to travel abroad, and put
himself at the service of some foreign power who, she thought, would
gladly welcome a staff officer of the Emperor.

"Serve a foreign nation!" cried Philippe, with horror.

Agathe kissed her son with enthusiasm.

"His father all over!" she exclaimed.

"He is right," said Joseph. "France is too proud of her heroes to let
them be heroic elsewhere. Napoleon may return once more."

However, to satisfy his mother, Philippe took up the dazzling idea of
joining General Lallemand in the United States, and helping him to
found what was called the Champ d'Asile, one of the most disastrous
swindles that ever appeared under the name of national subscription.
Agathe gave ten thousand francs to start her son, and she went to
Havre to see him off. By the end of 1817, she had accustomed herself
to live on the six hundred francs a year which remained to her from
her property in the Funds; then, by a lucky chance, she made a good
investment of the ten thousand francs she still kept of her savings,
from which she obtained an interest of seven per cent. Joseph wished
to emulate his mother's devotion. He dressed like a bailiff; wore the
commonest shoes and blue stockings; denied himself gloves, and burned
charcoal; he lived on bread and milk and Brie cheese. The poor lad got
no sympathy, except from Madame Descoings, and from Bixiou, his
student-friend and comrade, who was then making those admirable
caricatures of his, and filling a small office in the ministry.

"With what joy I welcomed the summer of 1818!" said Joseph Bridau in
after-years, relating his troubles; "the sun saved me the cost of

As good a colorist by this time as Gros himself, Joseph now went to
his master for consultation only. He was already meditating a tilt
against classical traditions, and Grecian conventionalities, in short,
against the leading-strings which held down an art to which Nature AS
SHE IS belongs, in the omnipotence of her creations and her imagery.
Joseph made ready for a struggle which, from the day when he first
exhibited in the Salon, has never ceased. It was a terrible year.
Roguin, the notary of Madame Descoings and Madame Bridau, absconded
with the moneys held back for seven years from Madame Descoings's
annuity, which by that time were producing two thousand francs a year.
Three days after this disaster, a bill of exchange for a thousand
francs, drawn by Philippe upon his mother, arrived from New York. The
poor fellow, misled like so many others, had lost his all in the Champ
d'Asile. A letter, which accompanied the bill, drove Agathe, Joseph,
and the Descoings to tears, and told of debts contracted in New York,
where his comrades in misfortunes had indorsed for him.

"It was I who made him go!" cried the poor mother, eager to divert the
blame from Philippe.

"I advise you not to send him on many such journeys," said the old
Descoings to her niece.

Madame Descoings was heroic. She continued to give the three thousand
francs a year to Madame Bridau, but she still paid the dues on her
trey which had never turned up since the year 1799. About this time,
she began to doubt the honesty of the government, and declared it was
capable of keeping the three numbers in the urn, so as to excite the
shareholders to put in enormous stakes. After a rapid survey of all
their resources, it seemed to the two women impossible to raise the
thousand francs without selling out the little that remained in the
Funds. They talked of pawning their silver and part of the linen, and
even the needless pieces of furniture. Joseph, alarmed at these
suggestions, went to see Gerard and told him their circumstances. The
great painter obtained an order from the household of the king for two
copies of a portrait of Louis XVIII., at five hundred francs each.
Though not naturally generous, Gros took his pupil to an artist-
furnishing house and fitted him out with the necessary materials. But
the thousand francs could not be had till the copies were delivered,
so Joseph painted four panels in ten days, sold them to the dealers
and brought his mother the thousand francs with which to meet the bill
of exchange when it fell due. Eight days later, came a letter from the
colonel, informing his mother that he was about to return to France on
board a packet from New York, whose captain had trusted him for the
passage-money. Philippe announced that he should need at least a
thousand francs on his arrival at Havre.

"Good," said Joseph to his mother, "I shall have finished my copies by
that time, and you can carry him the money."

"Dear Joseph!" cried Agathe in tears, kissing her son, "God will bless
you. You do love him, then, poor persecuted fellow? He is indeed our
glory and our hope for the future. So young, so brave, so unfortunate!
everything is against him; we three must always stand by him."

"You see now that painting is good for something," cried Joseph,
overjoyed to have won his mother's permission to be a great artist.

Madame Bridau rushed to meet her beloved son, Colonel Philippe, at
Havre. Once there, she walked every day beyond the round tower built
by Francois I., to look out for the American packet, enduring the
keenest anxieties. Mothers alone know how such sufferings quicken
maternal love. The vessel arrived on a fine morning in October, 1819,
without delay, and having met with no mishap. The sight of a mother
and the air of one's native land produces a certain affect on the
coarsest nature, especially after the miseries of a sea-voyage.
Philippe gave way to a rush of feeling, which made Agathe think to
herself, "Ah! how he loves me!" Alas, the hero loved but one person in
the world, and that person was Colonel Philippe. His misfortunes in
Texas, his stay in New York,--a place where speculation and
individualism are carried to the highest pitch, where the brutality of
self-interest attains to cynicism, where man, essentially isolated, is
compelled to push his way for himself and by himself, where politeness
does not exist,--in fact, even the minor events of Philippe's journey
had developed in him the worst traits of an old campaigner: he had
grown brutal, selfish, rude; he drank and smoked to excess; physical
hardships and poverty had depraved him. Moreover, he considered
himself persecuted; and the effect of that idea is to make persons who
are unintelligent persecutors and bigots themselves. To Philippe's
conception of life, the universe began at his head and ended at his
feet, and the sun shone for him alone. The things he had seen in New
York, interpreted by his practical nature, carried away his last
scruples on the score of morality. For such beings, there are but two
ways of existence. Either they believe, or they do not believe; they
have the virtues of honest men, or they give themselves up to the
demands of necessity; in which case they proceed to turn their
slightest interests and each passing impulse of their passions into

Such a system of life carries a man a long way. It was only in
appearance that Colonel Philippe retained the frankness, plain-
dealing, and easy-going freedom of a soldier. This made him, in
reality, very dangerous; he seemed as guileless as a child, but,
thinking only of himself, he never did anything without reflecting
what he had better do,--like a wily lawyer planning some trick "a la
Maitre Gonin"; words cost him nothing, and he said as many as he could
to get people to believe. If, unfortunately, some one refused to
accept the explanations with which he justified the contradictions
between his conduct and his professions, the colonel, who was a good
shot and could defy the most adroit fencing-master, and possessed the
coolness of one to whom life is indifferent, was quite ready to demand
satisfaction for the first sharp word; and when a man shows himself
prepared for violence there is little more to be said. His imposing
stature had taken on a certain rotundity, his face was bronzed from
exposure in Texas, he was still succinct in speech, and had acquired
the decisive tone of a man obliged to make himself feared among the
populations of a new world. Thus developed, plainly dressed, his body
trained to endurance by his recent hardships, Philippe in the eyes of
his mother was a hero; in point of fact, he had simply become what
people (not to mince matters) call a blackguard.

Shocked at the destitution of her cherished son, Madame Bridau bought
him a complete outfit of clothes at Havre. After listening to the tale
of his woes, she had not the heart to stop his drinking and eating and
amusing himself as a man just returned from the Champ d'Asile was
likely to eat and drink and divert himself. It was certainly a fine
conception,--that of conquering Texas with the remains of the imperial
army. The failure was less in the idea than in the men who conceived
it; for Texas is to-day a republic, with a future full of promise.
This scheme of Liberalism under the Restoration distinctly proves that
the interests of the party were purely selfish and not national,
seeking power and nothing else. Neither men, nor occasion, nor cause,
nor devotion were lacking; only the money and the support of the
hypocritical party at home who dispensed enormous sums, but gave
nothing when it came to recovering empire. Household managers like
Agathe have a plain common-sense which enables them to perceive such
political chicane: the poor woman saw the truth through the lines of
her son's tale; for she had read, in the exile's interests, all the
pompous editorials of the constitutional journals, and watched the
management of the famous subscription, which produced barely one
hundred and fifty thousand francs when it ought to have yielded five
or six millions. The Liberal leaders soon found out that they were
playing into the hands of Louis XVIII. by exporting the glorious
remnants of our grand army, and they promptly abandoned to their fate
the most devoted, the most ardent, the most enthusiastic of its
heroes,--those, in short, who had gone in the advance. Agathe was
never able, however, to make her son see that he was more duped than
persecuted. With blind belief in her idol, she supposed herself
ignorant, and deplored, as Philippe did, the evil times which had done
him such wrong. Up to this time he was, to her mind, throughout his
misfortunes, less faulty than victimized by his noble nature, his
energy, the fall of the Emperor, the duplicity of the Liberals, and
the rancor of the Bourbons against the Bonapartists. During the week
at Havre, a week which was horribly costly, she dared not ask him to
make terms with the royal government and apply to the minister of war.
She had hard work to get him away from Havre, where living is very
expensive, and to bring him back to Paris before her money gave out.
Madame Descoings and Joseph, who were awaiting their arrival in the
courtyard of the coach-office of the Messageries Royales, were struck
with the change in Agathe's face.

"Your mother has aged ten years in two months," whispered the
Descoings to Joseph, as they all embraced, and the two trunks were
being handed down.

"How do you do, mere Descoings?" was the cool greeting the colonel
bestowed on the old woman whom Joseph was in the habit of calling
"maman Descoings."

"I have no money to pay for a hackney-coach," said Agathe, in a sad

"I have," replied the young painter. "What a splendid color Philippe
has turned!" he cried, looking at his brother.

"Yes, I've browned like a pipe," said Philippe. "But as for you,
you're not a bit changed, little man."

Joseph, who was now twenty-one, and much thought of by the friends who
had stood by him in his days of trial, felt his own strength and was
aware of his talent; he represented the art of painting in a circle of
young men whose lives were devoted to science, letters, politics, and
philosophy. Consequently, he was wounded by his brother's contempt,
which Philippe still further emphasized with a gesture, pulling his
ears as if he were still a child. Agathe noticed the coolness which
succeeded the first glow of tenderness on the part of Joseph and
Madame Descoings; but she hastened to tell them of Philippe's
sufferings in exile, and so lessened it. Madame Descoings, wishing to
make a festival of the return of the prodigal, as she called him under
her breath, had prepared one of her good dinners, to which old
Claparon and the elder Desroches were invited. All the family friends
were to come, and did come, in the evening. Joseph had invited Leon
Giraud, d'Arthez, Michel Chrestien, Fulgence Ridal, and Horace
Bianchon, his friends of the fraternity. Madame Descoings had promised
Bixiou, her so-called step-son, that the young people should play at
ecarte. Desroches the younger, who had now taken, under his father's
stern rule, his degree at law, was also of the party. Du Bruel,
Claparon, Desroches, and the Abbe Loraux carefully observed the
returned exile, whose manners and coarse features, and voice roughened
by the abuse of liquors, together with his vulgar glance and
phraseology, alarmed them not a little. While Joseph was placing the
card-tables, the more intimate of the family friends surrounded Agathe
and asked,--

"What do you intend to make of Philippe?"

"I don't know," she answered, "but he is determined not to serve the

"Then it will be very difficult for you to find him a place in France.
If he won't re-enter the army, he can't be readily got into government
employ," said old Du Bruel. "And you have only to listen to him to see
he could never, like my son, make his fortune by writing plays."

The motion of Agathe's eyes, with which alone she replied to this
speech, showed how anxious Philippe's future made her; they all kept
silence. The exile himself, Bixiou, and the younger Desroches were
playing at ecarte, a game which was then the rage.

"Maman Descoings, my brother has no money to play with," whispered
Joseph in the good woman's ear.

The devotee of the Royal Lottery fetched twenty francs and gave them
to the artist, who slipped them secretly into his brother's hand. All
the company were now assembled. There were two tables of boston; and
the party grew lively. Philippe proved a bad player: after winning for
awhile, he began to lose; and by eleven o'clock he owed fifty francs
to young Desroches and to Bixiou. The racket and the disputes at the
ecarte table resounded more than once in the ears of the more peaceful
boston players, who were watching Philippe surreptitiously. The exile
showed such signs of bad temper that in his final dispute with the
younger Desroches, who was none too amiable himself, the elder
Desroches joined in, and though his son was decidedly in the right, he
declared he was in the wrong, and forbade him to play any more. Madame
Descoings did the same with her grandson, who was beginning to let fly
certain witticisms; and although Philippe, so far, had not understood
him, there was always a chance that one of the barbed arrows might
piece the colonel's thick skull and put the sharp jester in peril.

"You must be tired," whispered Agathe in Philippe's ear; "come to

"Travel educates youth," said Bixiou, grinning, when Madame Bridau and
the colonel had disappeared.

Joseph, who got up at dawn and went to bed early, did not see the end
of the party. The next morning Agathe and Madame Descoings, while
preparing breakfast, could not help remarking that soires would be
terribly expensive if Philippe were to go on playing that sort of
game, as the Descoings phrased it. The worthy old woman, then seventy-
six years of age, proposed to sell her furniture, give up her
appartement on the second floor (which the owner was only too glad to
occupy), and take Agathe's parlor for her chamber, making the other
room a sitting-room and dining-room for the family. In this way they
could save seven hundred francs a year; which would enable them to
give Philippe fifty francs a month until he could find something to
do. Agathe accepted the sacrifice. When the colonel came down and his
mother had asked how he liked his little bedroom, the two widows
explained to him the situation of the family. Madame Descoings and
Agathe possessed, by putting all their resources together, an income
of five thousand three hundred francs, four thousand of which belonged
to Madame Descoings and were merely a life annuity. The Descoings made
an allowance of six hundred a year to Bixiou, whom she had
acknowledged as her grandson during the last few months, also six
hundred to Joseph; the rest of her income, together with that of
Agathe, was spent for the household wants. All their savings were by
this time eaten up.

"Make yourselves easy," said the lieutenant-colonel. "I'll find a
situation and put you to no expense; all I need for the present is
board and lodging."

Agathe kissed her son, and Madame Descoings slipped a hundred francs
into his hand to pay for his losses of the night before. In ten days
the furniture was sold, the appartement given up, and the change in
Agathe's domestic arrangements accomplished with a celerity seldom
seen outside of Paris. During those ten days, Philippe regularly
decamped after breakfast, came back for dinner, was off again for the
evening, and only got home about midnight to go to bed. He contracted
certain habits half mechanically, and they soon became rooted in him;
he got his boots blacked on the Pont Neuf for the two sous it would
have cost him to go by the Pont des Arts to the Palais-Royal, where he
consumed regularly two glasses of brandy while reading the newspapers,
--an occupation which employed him till midday; after that he
sauntered along the rue Vivienne to the cafe Minerve, where the
Liberals congregated, and where he played at billiards with a number
of old comrades. While winning and losing, Philippe swallowed four or
five more glasses of divers liquors, and smoked ten or a dozen cigars
in going and coming, and idling along the streets. In the evening,
after consuming a few pipes at the Hollandais smoking-rooms, he would
go to some gambling-place towards ten o'clock at night. The waiter
handed him a card and a pin; he always inquired of certain well-
seasoned players about the chances of the red or the black, and staked
ten francs when the lucky moment seemed to come; never playing more
than three times, win or lose. If he won, which usually happened, he
drank a tumbler of punch and went home to his garret; but by that time
he talked of smashing the ultras and the Bourbon body-guard, and
trolled out, as he mounted the staircase, "We watch to save the
Empire!" His poor mother, hearing him, used to think "How gay Philippe
is to-night!" and then she would creep up and kiss him, without
complaining of the fetid odors of the punch, and the brandy, and the

"You ought to be satisfied with me, my dear mother," he said, towards
the end of January; "I lead the most regular of lives."

The colonel had dined five times at a restaurant with some of his army
comrades. These old soldiers were quite frank with each other on the
state of their own affairs, all the while talking of certain hopes
which they based on the building of a submarine vessel, expected to
bring about the deliverance of the Emperor. Among these former
comrades, Philippe particularly liked an old captain of the dragoons
of the Guard, named Giroudeau, in whose company he had seen his first
service. This friendship with the late dragoon led Philippe into
completing what Rabelais called "the devil's equipage"; and he added
to his drams, and his tobacco, and his play, a "fourth wheel."

One evening at the beginning of February, Giroudeau took Philippe
after dinner to the Gaite, occupying a free box sent to a theatrical
journal belonging to his nephew Finot, in whose office Giroudeau was
cashier and secretary. Both were dressed after the fashion of the
Bonapartist officers who now belonged to the Constitutional
Opposition; they wore ample overcoats with square collars, buttoned to
the chin and coming down to their heels, and decorated with the
rosette of the Legion of honor; and they carried malacca canes with
loaded knobs, which they held by strings of braided leather. The late
troopers had just (to use one of their own expressions) "made a bout
of it," and were mutually unbosoming their hearts as they entered the
box. Through the fumes of a certain number of bottles and various
glasses of various liquors, Giroudeau pointed out to Philippe a plump
and agile little ballet-girl whom he called Florentine, whose good
graces and affection, together with the box, belonged to him as the
representative of an all-powerful journal.

"But," said Philippe, "I should like to know how far her good graces
go for such an iron-gray old trooper as you."

"Thank God," replied Giroudeau, "I've stuck to the traditions of our
glorious uniform. I have never wasted a farthing upon a woman in my

"What's that?" said Philippe, putting a finger on his left eye.

"That is so," answered Giroudeau. "But, between ourselves, the
newspaper counts for a good deal. To-morrow, in a couple of lines, we
shall advise the managers to let Mademoiselle Florentine dance a
particular step, and so forth. Faith, my dear boy, I'm uncommonly

"Well!" thought Philippe; "if this worthy Giroudeau, with a skull as
polished as my knee, forty-eight years, a big stomach, a face like a
ploughman, and a nose like a potato, can get a ballet-girl, I ought to
be the lover of the first actress in Paris. Where does one find such
luck?" he said aloud.

"I'll show you Florentine's place to-night. My Dulcinea only earns
fifty francs a month at the theatre," added Giroudeau, "but she is
very prettily set up, thanks to an old silk dealer named Cardot, who
gives her five hundred francs a month."

"Well, but--?" exclaimed the jealous Philippe.

"Bah!" said Giroudeau; "true love is blind."

When the play was over Giroudeau took Philippe to Mademoiselle
Florentine's appartement, which was close to the theatre, in the rue
de Crussol.

"We must behave ourselves," said Giroudeau. "Florentine's mother is
here. You see, I haven't the means to pay for one, so the worthy woman
is really her own mother. She used to be a concierge, but she's not
without intelligence. Call her Madame; she makes a point of it."

Florentine happened that night to have a friend with her,--a certain
Marie Godeschal, beautiful as an angel, cold as a danseuse, and a
pupil of Vestris, who foretold for her a great choregraphic destiny.
Mademoiselle Godeschal, anxious to make her first appearance at the
Panorama-Dramatique under the name of Mariette, based her hopes on the
protection and influence of a first gentleman of the bedchamber, to
whom Vestris had promised to introduce her. Vestris, still green
himself at this period, did not think his pupil sufficiently trained
to risk the introduction. The ambitious girl did, in the end, make her
pseudonym of Mariette famous; and the motive of her ambition, it must
be said, was praiseworthy. She had a brother, a clerk in Derville's
law office. Left orphans and very poor, and devoted to each other, the
brother and sister had seen life such as it is in Paris. The one
wished to be a lawyer that he might support his sister, and he lived
on ten sous a day; the other had coldly resolved to be a dancer, and
to profit by her beauty as much as by her legs that she might buy a
practice for her brother. Outside of their feeling for each other, and
of their mutual life and interests, everything was to them, as it once
was to the Romans and the Hebrews, barbaric, outlandish, and hostile.
This generous affection, which nothing ever lessened, explained
Mariette to those who knew her intimately.

The brother and sister were living at this time on the eighth floor of
a house in the Vieille rue du Temple. Mariette had begun her studies
when she was ten years old; she was now just sixteen. Alas! for want
of becoming clothes, her beauty, hidden under a coarse shawl, dressed
in calico, and ill-kept, could only be guessed by those Parisians who
devote themselves to hunting grisettes and the quest of beauty in
misfortune, as she trotted past them with mincing step, mounted on
iron pattens. Philippe fell in love with Mariette. To Mariette,
Philippe was commander of the dragoons of the Guard, a staff-officer
of the Emperor, a young man of twenty-seven, and above all, the means
of proving herself superior to Florentine by the evident superiority
of Philippe over Giroudeau. Florentine and Giroudeau, the one to
promote his comrade's happiness, the other to get a protector for her
friend, pushed Philippe and Mariette into a "mariage en detrempe,"--a
Parisian term which is equivalent to "morganatic marriage," as applied
to royal personages. Philippe when they left the house revealed his
poverty to Giroudeau, but the old roue reassured him.

"I'll speak to my nephew Finot," he said. "You see, Philippe, the
reign of phrases and quill-drivers is upon us; we may as well submit.
To-day, scribblers are paramount. Ink has ousted gunpowder, and talk
takes the place of shot. After all, these little toads of editors are
pretty good fellows, and very clever. Come and see me to-morrow at the
newspaper office; by that time I shall have said a word for you to my
nephew. Before long you'll have a place on some journal or other.
Mariette, who is taking you at this moment (don't deceive yourself)
because she literally has nothing, no engagement, no chance of
appearing on the stage, and I have told her that you are going on a
newspaper like myself,--Mariette will try to make you believe she is
loving you for yourself; and you will believe her! Do as I do,--keep
her as long as you can. I was so much in love with Florentine that I
begged Finot to write her up and help her to a debut; but my nephew
replied, 'You say she has talent; well, the day after her first
appearance she will turn her back on you.' Oh, that's Finot all over!
You'll find him a knowing one."

The next day, about four o'clock, Philippe went to the rue de Sentier,
where he found Giroudeau in the entresol,--caged like a wild beast in
a sort of hen-coop with a sliding panel; in which was a little stove,
a little table, two little chairs, and some little logs of wood. This
establishment bore the magic words, SUBSCRIPTION OFFICE, painted on
the door in black letters, and the word "Cashier," written by hand and
fastened to the grating of the cage. Along the wall that lay opposite
to the cage, was a bench, where, at this moment, a one-armed man was
breakfasting, who was called Coloquinte by Giroudeau, doubtless from
the Egyptian colors of his skin.

"A pretty hole!" exclaimed Philippe, looking round the room. "In the
name of thunder! what are you doing here, you who charged with poor
Colonel Chabert at Eylau? You--a gallant officer!"

"Well, yes! broum! broum!--a gallant officer keeping the accounts of a
little newspaper," said Giroudeau, settling his black silk skull-cap.
"Moreover, I'm the working editor of all that rubbish," he added,
pointing to the newspaper itself.

"And I, who went to Egypt, I'm obliged to stamp it," said the one-
armed man.

"Hold your tongue, Coloquinte," said Giroudeau. "You are in presence
of a hero who carried the Emperor's orders at the battle of

Coloquinte saluted. "That's were I lost my missing arm!" he said.

"Coloquinte, look after the den. I'm going up to see my nephew."

The two soldiers mounted to the fourth floor, where, in an attic room
at the end of a passage, they found a young man with a cold light eye,
lying on a dirty sofa. The representative of the press did not stir,
though he offered cigars to his uncle and his uncle's friend.

"My good fellow," said Giroudeau in a soothing and humble tone, "this
is the gallant cavalry officer of the Imperial Guard of whom I spoke
to you."

"Eh! well?" said Finot, eyeing Philippe, who, like Giroudeau, lost all
his assurance before the diplomatist of the press.

"My dear boy," said Giroudeau, trying to pose as an uncle, "the
colonel has just returned from Texas."

"Ah! you were taken in by that affair of the Champ d'Asile, were you?
Seems to me you were rather young to turn into a Soldier-laborer."

The bitterness of this jest will only be understood by those who
remember the deluge of engravings, screens, clocks, bronzes, and
plaster-casts produced by the idea of the Soldier-laborer, a splendid
image of Napoleon and his heroes, which afterwards made its appearance
on the stage in vaudevilles. That idea, however, obtained a national
subscription; and we still find, in the depths of the provinces, old
wall-papers which bear the effigy of the Soldier-laborer. If this
young man had not been Giroudeau's nephew, Philippe would have boxed
his ears.

"Yes, I was taken in by it; I lost my time, and twelve thousand francs
to boot," answered Philippe, trying to force a grin.

"You are still fond of the Emperor?" asked Finot.

"He is my god," answered Philippe Bridau.

"You are a Liberal?"

"I shall always belong to the Constitutional Opposition. Oh Foy! oh
Manuel! oh Laffitte! what men they are! They'll rid us of these
others,--these wretches, who came back to France at the heels of the

"Well," said Finot coldly, "you ought to make something out of your
misfortunes; for you are the victim of the Liberals, my good fellow.
Stay a Liberal, if you really value your opinions, but threaten the
party with the follies in Texas which you are ready to show up. You
never got a farthing of the national subscription, did you? Well, then
you hold a fine position: demand an account of that subscription. I'll
tell you how you can do it. A new Opposition journal is just starting,
under the auspices of the deputies of the Left; you shall be the
cashier, with a salary of three thousand francs. A permanent place.
All you want is some one to go security for you in twenty thousand
francs; find that, and you shall be installed within a week. I'll
advise the Liberals to silence you by giving you the place. Meantime,
talk, threaten,--threaten loudly."

Giroudeau let Philippe, who was profuse in his thanks, go down a few
steps before him, and then he turned back to say to his nephew, "Well,
you are a queer fellow! you keep me here on twelve hundred francs--"

"That journal won't live a year," said Finot. "I've got something
better for you."

"Thunder!" cried Philippe to Giroudeau. "He's no fool, that nephew of
yours. I never once thought of making something, as he calls it, out
of my position."

That night at the cafe Lemblin and the cafe Minerve Colonel Philippe
fulminated against the Liberal party, which had raised subscriptions,
sent heroes to Texas, talked hypocritically of Soldier-laborers, and
left them to starve, after taking the money they had put into it, and
keeping them in exile for two years.

"I am going to demand an account of the moneys collected by the
subscription for the Champ d'Asile," he said to one of the frequenters
of the cafe, who repeated it to the journalists of the Left.

Philippe did not go back to the rue Mazarin; he went to Mariette and
told her of his forthcoming appointment on a newspaper with ten
thousand subscribers, in which her choregraphic claims should be
warmly advanced.

Agathe and Madame Descoings waited up for Philippe in fear and
trembling, for the Duc de Berry had just been assassinated. The
colonel came home a few minutes after breakfast; and when his mother
showed her uneasiness at his absence, he grew angry and asked if he
were not of age.

"In the name of thunder, what's all this! here have I brought you some
good news, and you both look like tombstones. The Duc de Berry is
dead, is he?--well, so much the better! that's one the less, at any
rate. As for me, I am to be cashier of a newspaper, with a salary of
three thousand francs, and there you are, out of all your anxieties on
my account."

"Is it possible?" cried Agathe.

"Yes; provided you can go security for me in twenty thousand francs;
you need only deposit your shares in the Funds, you will draw the
interest all the same."

The two widows, who for nearly two months had been desperately anxious
to find out what Philippe was about, and how he could be provided for,
were so overjoyed at this prospect that they gave no thought to their
other catastrophes. That evening, the Grecian sages, old Du Bruel,
Claparon, whose health was failing, and the inflexible Desroches were
unanimous; they all advised Madame Bridau to go security for her son.
The new journal, which fortunately was started before the
assassination of the Duc de Berry, just escaped the blow which
Monsieur Decazes then launched at the press. Madame Bridau's shares in
the Funds, representing thirteen hundred francs' interest, were
transferred as security for Philippe, who was then appointed cashier.
That good son at once promised to pay one hundred francs every month
to the two widows, for his board and lodging, and was declared by both
to be the best of sons. Those who had thought ill of him now
congratulated Agathe.

"We were unjust to him," they said.

Poor Joseph, not to be behind his brother in generosity, resolved to
pay for his own support, and succeeded.


Three months later, the colonel, who ate and drank enough for four
men, finding fault with the food and compelling the poor widows, on
the score of his payments, to spend much money on their table, had not
yet paid down a single penny. His mother and Madame Descoings were
unwilling, out of delicacy, to remind him of his promise. The year
went by without one of those coins which Leon Gozlan so vigorously
called "tigers with five claws" finding its way from Philippe's pocket
to the household purse. It is true that the colonel quieted his
conscience on this score by seldom dining at home.

"Well, he is happy," said his mother; "he is easy in mind; he has a

Through the influence of a feuilleton, edited by Vernou, a friend of
Bixiou, Finot, and Giroudeau, Mariette made her appearance, not at the
Panorama-Dramatique but at the Porte-Saint-Martin, where she triumphed
beside the famous Begrand. Among the directors of the theatre was a
rich and luxurious general officer, in love with an actress, for whose
sake he had made himself an impresario. In Paris, we frequently meet
with men so fascinated with actresses, singers, or ballet-dancers,
that they are willing to become directors of a theatre out of love.
This officer knew Philippe and Giroudeau. Mariette's first appearance,
heralded already by Finot's journal and also by Philippe's, was
promptly arranged by the three officers; for there seems to be
solidarity among the passions in a matter of folly.

The mischievous Bixiou was not long in revealing to his grandmother
and the devoted Agathe that Philippe, the cashier, the hero of heroes,
was in love with Mariette, the celebrated ballet-dancer at the Porte-
Saint-Martin. The news was a thunder-clap to the two widows; Agathe's
religious principles taught her to think that all women on the stage
were brands in the burning; moreover, she thought, and so did Madame
Descoings, that women of that kind dined off gold, drank pearls, and
wasted fortunes.

"Now do you suppose," said Joseph to his mother, "that my brother is
such a fool as to spend his money on Mariette? Such women only ruin
rich men."

"They talk of engaging Mariette at the Opera," said Bixiou. "Don't be
worried, Madame Bridau; the diplomatic body often comes to the Porte-
Saint-Martin, and that handsome girl won't stay long with your son. I
did hear that an ambassador was madly in love with her. By the bye,
another piece of news! Old Claparon is dead, and his son, who has
become a banker, has ordered the cheapest kind of funeral for him.
That fellow has no education; they wouldn't behave like that in

Philippe, prompted by mercenary motives, proposed to Mariette that she
should marry him; but she, knowing herself on the eve of an engagement
at the Grand Opera, refused the offer, either because she guessed the
colonel's motive, or because she saw how important her independence
would be to her future fortune. For the remainder of this year,
Philippe never came more than twice a month to see his mother. Where
was he? Either at his office, or the theatre, or with Mariette. No
light whatever as to his conduct reached the household of the rue
Mazarin. Giroudeau, Finot, Bixiou, Vernou, Lousteau, saw him leading a
life of pleasure. Philippe shared the gay amusements of Tullia, a
leading singer at the Opera, of Florentine, who took Mariette's place
at the Porte-Saint-Martin, of Florine and Matifat, Coralie and
Camusot. After four o'clock, when he left his office, until midnight,
he amused himself; some party of pleasure had usually been arranged
the night before,--a good dinner, a card-party, a supper by some one
or other of the set. Philippe was in his element.

This carnival, which lasted eighteen months, was not altogether
without its troubles. The beautiful Mariette no sooner appeared at the
Opera, in January, 1821, than she captured one of the most
distinguished dukes of the court of Louis XVIII. Philippe tried to
make head against the peer, and by the month of April he was compelled
by his passion, notwithstanding some luck at cards, to dip into the
funds of which he was cashier. By May he had taken eleven hundred
francs. In that fatal month Mariette started for London, to see what
could be done with the lords while the temporary opera house in the
Hotel Choiseul, rue Lepelletier, was being prepared. The luckless
Philippe had ended, as often happens, in loving Mariette
notwithstanding her flagrant infidelities; she herself had never
thought him anything but a dull-minded, brutal soldier, the first rung
of a ladder on which she had never intended to remain long. So,
foreseeing the time when Philippe would have spent all his money, she
captured other journalistic support which released her from the
necessity of depending on him; nevertheless, she did feel the peculiar
gratitude that class of women acknowledge towards the first man who
smooths their way, as it were, among the difficulties and horrors of a
theatrical career.

Forced to let his terrible mistress go to London without him, Philippe
went into winter quarters, as he called it,--that is, he returned to
his attic room in his mother's appartement. He made some gloomy
reflections as he went to bed that night, and when he got up again. He
was conscious within himself of the inability to live otherwise than
as he had been living the last year. The luxury that surrounded
Mariette, the dinners, the suppers, the evenings in the side-scenes,
the animation of wits and journalists, the sort of racket that went on
around him, the delights that tickled both his senses and his vanity,
--such a life, found only in Paris, and offering daily the charm of
some new thing, was now more than habit,--it had become to Philippe as
much a necessity as his tobacco or his brandy. He saw plainly that he
could not live without these continual enjoyments. The idea of suicide
came into his head; not on account of the deficit which must soon be
discovered in his accounts, but because he could no longer live with
Mariette in the atmosphere of pleasure in which he had disported
himself for over a year. Full of these gloomy thoughts, he entered for
the first time his brother's painting-room, where he found the painter
in a blue blouse, copying a picture for a dealer.

"So that's how pictures are made," said Philippe, by way of opening
the conversation.

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