had taken a
great liking to him, he left the studio without much ceremony; and the
two friends improvised a studio and a lodging for themselves in a
garret in a poor quarter of the city, and began their search for a
means of pleasing the public. But the way was not opened to either of
them; they could not sell what they painted, and they were reduced to
serious straits. It was not the fault of the public. Marolles was but
an indifferent painter at any time, and Millet would not have blamed
the public for its indifference to subjects in which he himself took
no real interest.

Millet was at a loss what to do for bread. His mind ran back
continually to his rural life at Gruchy. "What if I should paint men
mowing or winnowing?" he said to Marolles; "their movements are
picturesque!" "You could not sell them," replied his friend. "Well,
then, what do you say to fauns and dryads?" "Who in Paris cares for
fauns and dryads?" "What shall I do, then?" said Millet in despair.
"What does the public like?" "It likes Boucher's Cupids, Watteau's
Pastorals, nudities, anecdotes, and copies of the past." It was hard
for Millet, but hunger drove him. He would not appeal to his family,
life was as difficult for them as for him. But before yielding he
would make one more trial, painting something from his own fancy. He
made a small picture representing "Charity"--a sad-faced woman
cherishing three children in her arms. He carried it to the dealers:
not one of them would buy it. He came back to Marolles. "Give me a
subject," he said, "and I will paint it."

To this time belong the pictures for which Millet has been much
criticised by people who did not appreciate his position. Some of them
recall Watteau, others Boucher, but they have a charm, a grace of
their own; they are far from being copies of these men. Others were
fanciful subjects to which Marolles gave names likely to attract the
notice of picture-buyers in search of a subject. But all was in vain.
The dealers were obstinate: the public unsympathetic. The highest
price that was offered was never above twenty francs, or five dollars.
Yet with this in his pocket, Millet deemed himself already on the high
road to fortune, and saw the day not distant when he could paint at
his pleasure the rustic subjects, memories of his home, that had
always been in his mind.

Several times in the course of this hard novitiate, Millet had escaped
from Paris for a visit to his own country. At one