out of the hospital; he will be as hungry as a
convalescent." The young men were saying, "What a head! what a
brigand! we shall have our hands full!"

"This is my son, the painter; my good Joseph," said Agathe at last,
presenting the artist.

There was an effort in the accent that she put upon the word "good,"
which revealed the mother's heart, whose thoughts were really in the
prison of the Luxembourg.

"He looks ill," said Madame Hochon; "he is not at all like you."

"No, madame," said Joseph, with the brusque candor of an artist; "I am
like my father, and very ugly at that."

Madame Hochon pressed Agathe's hand which she was holding, and glanced
at her as much as to say, "Ah! my child; I understand now why you
prefer your good-for-nothing Philippe."

"I never saw your father, my dear boy," she said aloud; "it is enough
to make me love you that you are your mother's son. Besides, you have
talent, so the late Madame Descoings used to write to me; she was the
only one of late years who told me much about you."

"Talent!" exclaimed the artist, "not as yet; but with time and
patience I may win fame and fortune."

"By painting?" said Monsieur Hochon ironically.

"Come, Adolphine," said Madame Hochon, "go and see about dinner."

"Mother," said Joseph, "I will attend to the trunks which they are
bringing in."

"Hochon," said the grandmother to Francois, "show the rooms to
Monsieur Bridau."

As the dinner was to be served at four o'clock and it was now only
half past three, Baruch rushed into the town to tell the news of the
Bridau arrival, describe Agathe's dress, and more particularly to
picture Joseph, whose haggard, unhealthy, and determined face was not
unlike the ideal of a brigand. That evening Joseph was the topic of
conversation in all the households of Issoudun.

"That sister of Rouget must have seen a monkey before her son was
born," said one; "he is the image of a baboon."

"He has the face of a brigand and the eyes of a basilisk."

"All artists are like that."

"They are as wicked as the red ass, and as spiteful as monkeys."

"It is part of their business."

"I have just seen Monsieur Beaussier, and he says he would not like to
meet him in a dark wood; he saw him in the diligence."

"He has got hollows over the eyes like a horse, and he laughs like a
maniac."

"The fellow looks as though he were capable of anything; perhaps it's
his fault that his brother, a fine handsome man they tell