ter reflections by which this sketch of
his life is introduced,--reflections that are applicable to many other
individuals of the tribe of artists.

In 1832, Fougeres lived in the rue de Navarin, on the fourth floor of
one of those tall, narrow houses which resemble the obelisk of Luxor,
and possess an alley, a dark little stairway with dangerous turnings,
three windows only on each floor, and, within the building, a courtyard,
or, to speak more correctly, a square pit or well. Above the three or
four rooms occupied by Grassou of Fougeres was his studio, looking over
to Montmartre. This studio was painted in brick-color, for a background;
the floor was tinted brown and well frotted; each chair was furnished
with a bit of carpet bound round the edges; the sofa, simple enough, was
clean as that in the bedroom of some worthy bourgeoise. All these things
denoted the tidy ways of a small mind and the thrift of a poor man. A
bureau was there, in which to put away the studio implements, a table
for breakfast, a sideboard, a secretary; in short, all the articles
necessary to a painter, neatly arranged and very clean. The stove
participated in this Dutch cleanliness, which was all the more visible
because the pure and little changing light from the north flooded with
its cold clear beams the vast apartment. Fougeres, being merely a genre
painter, does not need the immense machinery and outfit which ruin
historical painters; he has never recognized within himself sufficient
faculty to attempt high-art, and he therefore clings to easel painting.

At the beginning of the month of December of that year, a season at
which the bourgeois of Paris conceive, periodically, the burlesque idea
of perpetuating their forms and figures already too bulky in themselves,
Pierre Grassou, who had risen early, prepared his palette, and lighted
his stove, was eating a roll steeped in milk, and waiting till the frost
on his windows had melted sufficiently to let the full light in. The
weather was fine and dry. At this moment the artist, who ate his bread
with that patient, resigned air that tells so much, heard and recognized
the step of a man who had upon his life the influence such men have
on the lives of nearly all artists,--the step of Elie Magus, a
picture-dealer, a usurer in canvas. The next moment Elie Magus entered
and found the painter in the act of beginning his work in the tidy
studio.

"How are you, old rascal?" said the painter.

Fou