cter. What he suffered, the manner in
which he lived during those years of study, God only knows. He suffered
as much as great men suffer when they are hounded by poverty and hunted
like wild beasts by the pack of commonplace minds and by troops of
vanities athirst for vengeance.

As soon as he thought himself able to fly on his own wings, Fougeres
took a studio in the upper part of the rue des Martyrs, where he began
to delve his way. He made his first appearance in 1819. The first
picture he presented to the jury of the Exhibition at the Louvre
represented a village wedding rather laboriously copied from Greuze's
picture. It was rejected. When Fougeres heard of the fatal decision,
he did not fall into one of those fits of epileptic self-love to which
strong natures give themselves up, and which sometimes end in challenges
sent to the director or the secretary of the Museum, or even by threats
of assassination. Fougeres quietly fetched his canvas, wrapped it in
a handkerchief, and brought it home, vowing in his heart that he would
still make himself a great painter. He placed his picture on the easel,
and went to one of his former masters, a man of immense talent,--to
Schinner, a kind and patient artist, whose triumph at that year's Salon
was complete. Fougeres asked him to come and criticise the rejected
work. The great painter left everything and went at once. When poor
Fougeres had placed the work before him Schinner, after a glance,
pressed Fougeres' hand.

"You are a fine fellow," he said; "you've a heart of gold, and I must
not deceive you. Listen; you are fulfilling all the promises you made in
the studios. When you find such things as that at the tip of your brush,
my good Fougeres, you had better leave colors with Brullon, and not take
the canvas of others. Go home early, put on your cotton night-cap, and
be in bed by nine o'clock. The next morning early go to some government
office, ask for a place, and give up art."

"My dear friend," said Fougeres, "my picture is already condemned; it is
not a verdict that I want of you, but the cause of that verdict."

"Well--you paint gray and sombre; you see nature being a crape veil;
your drawing is heavy, pasty; your composition is a medley of Greuze,
who only redeemed his defects by the qualities which you lack."

While detailing these faults of the picture Schinner saw on Fougeres'
face so deep an expression of sadness that he carried him off to dinner
and tried