so hungry for the colours of
life--a free intercourse with those wealthy lovers of the arts, M. de
Crozat, M. de Julienne, the Abbe de la Roque, the Count de Caylus, and
M. Gersaint, the famous dealer in pictures, who are so anxious to lodge
him in their fine hotels, and to have him of their company at their
country houses. Paris, we hear, has never been wealthier and more
luxurious than now: and the great ladies outbid each other to carry his
work upon their very fans. Those vast fortunes, however, seem to
change hands very rapidly. And Antony's new manner? I am unable even
to divine it--to conceive the trick and effect of it--at all. Only,
something of lightness and coquetry I discern there, at variance,
methinks, [17] with his own singular gravity and even sadness of mien
and mind, more answerable to the stately apparelling of the age of
Henry the Fourth, or of Lewis the Thirteenth, in these old, sombre
Spanish houses of ours.

March 1713.

We have all been very happy,--Jean-Baptiste as if in a delightful
dream. Antony Watteau, being consulted with regard to the lad's
training as a painter, has most generously offered to receive him for
his own pupil. My father, for some reason unknown to me, seemed to
hesitate at the first; but Jean-Baptiste, whose enthusiasm for Antony
visibly refines and beautifies his whole nature, has won the necessary
permission, and this dear young brother will leave us to-morrow. Our
regrets and his, at his parting from us for the first time, overtook
our joy at his good fortune by surprise, at the last moment, just as we
were about to bid each other good-night. For a while there had seemed
to be an uneasiness under our cheerful talk, as if each one present
were concealing something with an effort; and it was Jean-Baptiste
himself who gave way at last. And then we sat down again, still
together, and allowed free play to what was in our hearts, almost till
morning, my sisters weeping much. I know better how to control myself.
In a few days that delightful new life will have [18] begun for him:
and I have made him promise to write often to us. With how small a
part of my whole life shall I be really living at Valenciennes!

January 1714.

Jean-Philippe Watteau has received a letter from his son to-day. Old
Michelle Watteau, whose sight is failing, though she still works (half
by touch, indeed) at her pillow-lace, was glad to hear me read the
letter aloud more than once. It re