ncyclopedias record that Ernest Renan married the daughter of Ary
Scheffer. Renan married the niece, and the fact that they named their
first child Ary helped, possibly, to confirm the error of the
biographers.

Scheffer's life was devoted to providing for and educating these young
women. He himself gave them lessons in the languages, in music, painting
and sculpture. The daughter was a handsome girl; and in point of
intellect kept her artist-father very busy to keep one lesson in advance.
Together they painted and modeled in clay, and the happiness that came to
Scheffer as he saw her powers unfold was the sweetest experience he had
ever known.

The coldness between himself and the King had increased. But Louis
Philippe did not forget him, for commissions came, one after another, for
work to cover the walls of the palace at Versailles. With the Queen his
relations were friendly--even intimate. Several times she came to his
house. Her interest in Cornelie was tender and strong, and when Scheffer
painted a "Mignon" and took Cornelie for a model, the Queen insisted on
having the picture and paying her own price--a figure quite beyond what
the artist asked.

This picture, which represents so vividly the profound pathos and depth
of soul which Ary Scheffer could put upon a canvas, can now be seen in
the Louvre. But the best collection of Scheffer's portraits and
historical pictures is at Versailles.

In the gentle companionship of his beloved daughter, Scheffer found the
meed of joy that was his due. With her he lived over the days that had
gone forever, and those other days that might have been.

And when the inevitable came and this daughter loved a worthy and
suitable young man, Scheffer bowed his head, and fighting hard to keep
back the tears gave the pair his blessing.

The marriage of Doctor Marjolin and Cornelie Scheffer was a happy mating;
and both honored the gifted father and ministered to him in every kindly
way.

But so susceptible was Scheffer's nature that when his daughter had given
her whole heart to another, the fine edge of his art was dulled and
blunted. He painted through habit, and the work had merit, but only at
rare intervals was there in it that undefinable something which all can
recognize, but none analyze, that stamps the product as great art.

* * * * *

When, in the year Eighteen Hundred Fifty, Scheffer married, it was the
death of his art.

The artist