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Pierre Grassou .....................................................................................................................................................1

Whenever you have gone to take a serious look at the exhibition of works of sculpture and painting, such as it

has been since the revolution of 1830, have you not been seized by a sense of uneasiness, weariness, sadness,

at the sight of those long and overcrowded galleries? Since 1830, the true Salon no longer exists. The

Louvre has again been taken by assault,this time by a populace of artists who have maintained themselves

In other days, when the Salon presented only the choicest works of art, it conferred the highest honor on the

creations there exhibited. Among the two hundred selected paintings, the public could still choose: a crown

was awarded to the masterpiece by hands unseen. Eager, impassioned discussions arose about some picture.

The abuse showered on Delacroix, on Ingres, contributed no less to their fame than the praises and fanaticism

of their adherents. Today, neither the crowd nor the criticism grows impassioned about the products of that

bazaar. Forced to make the selection for itself, which in former days the examining jury made for it, the

attention of the public is soon wearied and the exhibition closes. Before the year 1817 the pictures admitted

never went beyond the first two columns of the long gallery of the old masters; but in that year, to the great

astonishment of the public, they filled the whole space. Historical, highart, genre paintings, easel pictures,

landscapes, flowers, animals, and water colors,these eight specialties could surely not offer more than

twenty pictures in one year worthy of the eyes of the public, which, indeed, cannot give its attention to a

greater number of such works. The more the number of artists increases, the more careful and exacting the

The true character of the Salon was lost as soon as it spread along the galleries. The Salon should have

remained within fixed limits of inflexible proportions, where each distinct specialty could show its

masterpieces only. An experience of ten years has shown the excellence of the former institution. Now,

instead of a tournament, we have a mob; instead of a noble exhibition, we have a tumultuous bazaar; instead

of a choice selection we have a chaotic mass. What is the result? A great artist is swamped. Decamps'

"Turkish Cafe," "Children at a Fountain," "Joseph," and "The Torture," would have redounded far more to his

credit if the four pictures had been exhibited in the great Salon with the hundred good pictures of that year,

than his twenty pictures could, among three thousand others, jumbled together in six galleries.

By some strange contradiction, ever since the doors are open to every one there has been much talk of

unknown and unrecognized genius. When, twelve years earlier, Ingres' "Courtesan," and that of Sigalon, the

"Medusa" of Gericault, the "Massacre of Scio" by Delacroix, the "Baptism of Henri IV." by Eugene Deveria,

admitted by celebrated artists accused of jealousy, showed the world, in spite of the denials of criticism, that

young and vigorous palettes existed, no such complaint was made. Now, when the veriest dauber of canvas

can send in his work, the whole talk is of genius neglected! Where judgment no longer exists, there is no

longer anything judged. But whatever artists may be doing now, they will come back in time to the

examination and selection which presents their works to the admiration of the crowd for whom they work.

Without selection by the Academy there will be no Salon, and without the Salon art may perish.

Ever since the catalogue has grown into a book, many names have appeared in it which still remain in their

native obscurity, in spite of the ten or a dozen pictures attached to them. Among these names perhaps the

most unknown to fame is that of an artist named Pierre Grassou, coming from Fougeres, and called simply

"Fougeres" among his brotherartists, who, at the present moment holds a place, as the saying is, "in the

sun," and who suggested the rather bitter 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 highart, and he therefore clings to easel

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 picturedealer, 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.

Fougeres had the cross of the Legion of honor, and Elie Magus bought his pictures at two and three hundred

"Business is very bad," replied Elie. "You artists have such pretensions! You talk of two hundred francs when

you haven't put six sous' worth of color on a canvas. However, you are a good fellow, I'll say that. You are

"Well, it means that the Greeks never proposed a good bit of business to the Trojans without getting their fair

share of it. In the olden time they used to say, 'Take my horse.' Now we say, 'Take my bear.' Well, what do

These words will give an idea of the mildness and wit with which Fougeres employed what painters call

"Yesthey want their portraits taken. These bourgeoisthey are crazy about arthave never dared to enter

a studio. The girl has a 'dot' of a hundred thousand francs. You can paint all three,perhaps they'll turn out

And with that the old Dutch log of wood who passed for a man and who was called Elie Magus, interrupted

himself to laugh an uncanny laugh which frightened the painter. He fancied he heard Mephistopheles talking

"Portraits bring five hundred francs apiece," went on Elie; "so you can very well afford to paint me three

"Marry! I?" cried Pierre Grassou,"I, who have a habit of sleeping alone; and get up at cockcrow, and all

"One hundred thousand francs," said Magus, "and a quiet girl, full of golden tones, as you call 'em, like a

"Retired merchants; just now in love with art; have a countryhouse at Ville d'Avray, and ten or twelve

"Now don't say that word; it makes me think of corks and sets my teeth on edge."

"Three portraitsI could put them in the Salon; I might go in for portraitpainting. Well, yes!"

Old Elie descended the staircase to go in search of the Vervelle family. To know to what extend this

proposition would act upon the painter, and what effect would be produced upon him by the Sieur and Dame

Vervelle, adorned by their only daughter, it is necessary to cast an eye on the anterior life of Pierre Grassou

When a pupil, Fougeres had studied drawing with Servin, who was thought a great draughtsman in academic

circles. After that he went to Schinner's, to learn the secrets of the powerful and magnificent color which

distinguishes that master. Master and scholars were all discreet; at any rate Pierre discovered none of their

secrets. From there he went to Sommervieux' atelier, to acquire that portion of the art of painting which is

called composition, but composition was shy and distant to him. Then he tried to snatch from Decamps and

Granet the mystery of their interior effects. The two masters were not robbed. Finally Fougeres ended his

education with DuvalLecamus. During these studied and these different transformations Fougeres' habits

and ways of life were tranquil and moral to a degree that furnished matter of jesting to the various ateliers

where he sojourned; but everywhere he disarmed his comrades by his modesty and by the patience and

gentleness of a lamblike nature. The masters, however, had no sympathy for the good lad; masters prefer

bright fellows, eccentric spirits, droll or fiery, or else gloomy and deeply reflective, which argue future talent.

Everything about Pierre Grassou smacked of mediocrity. His nickname "Fougeres" (that of the painter in the

play of "The Eglantine") was the source of much teasing; but, by force of circumstances, he accepted the

Grassou of Fougeres resembled his name. Plump and of medium height, he had a dull complexion, brown

eyes, black hair, a turnedup nose, rather wide mouth, and long ears. His gentle, passive, and resigned air

gave a certain relief to these leading features of a physiognomy that was full of health, but wanting in action.

This young man, born to be a virtuous bourgeois, having left his native place and come to Paris to be clerk

with a colormerchant (formerly of Mayenne and a distant connection of the Orgemonts) made himself a

painter simply by the fact of an obstinacy which constitutes the Breton character. 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

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 selflove 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

"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 nightcap, and be in bed by nine o'clock. The next morning early go to some government office,

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

"Wellyou 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 to console him. The next morning at seven o'clock Fougeres was at

his easel working over the rejected picture; he warmed the colors; he made the corrections suggested by

Schinner, he touched up his figures. Then, disgusted with such patching, he carried the picture to Elie Magus.

Elie Magus, a sort of DutchFlemishBelgian, had three reasons for being what he became,rich and

avaricious. Coming last from Bordeaux, he was just starting in Paris, selling old pictures and living on the

boulevard BonneNouvelle. Fougeres, who relied on his palette to go to the baker's, bravely ate bread and

nuts, or bread and milk, or bread and cherries, or bread and cheese, according to the seasons. Elie Magus, to

whom Pierre offered his first picture, eyed it for some time and then gave him fifteen francs.

"With fifteen francs a year coming in, and a thousand francs for expenses," said Fougeres, smiling, "a man

Elie Magus made a gesture; he bit his thumbs, thinking that he might have had that picture for five francs.

For several days Pierre walked down from the rue des Martyrs and stationed himself at the corner of the

boulevard opposite to Elie's shop, whence his eye could rest upon his picture, which did not obtain any notice

from the eyes of the passers along the street. At the end of a week the picture disappeared; Fougeres walked

slowly up and approached the dealer's shop in a lounging manner. The Jew was at his door.

"No, here it is," said Magus; "I've framed it, to show it to some one who fancies he knows about painting."

Fougeres had not the heart to return to the boulevard. He set about another picture, and spent two months

One evening he went to the boulevard, his feet leading him fatefully to the dealer's shop. His picture was not

"I got back what I gave and a small interest. Make me some Flemish interiors, a lesson of anatomy,

Fougeres would fain have taken old Magus in his arms; he regarded him as a father. He went home with joy

in his heart; the great painter Schinner was mistaken after all! In that immense city of Paris there were some

hearts that beat in unison with Pierre's; his talent was understood and appreciated. The poor fellow of

twentyseven had the innocence of a lad of sixteen. Another man, one of those distrustful, surly artists,

would have noticed the diabolical look on Elie's face and seen the twitching of the hairs of his beard, the

irony of his moustache, and the movement of his shoulders which betrayed the satisfaction of Walter Scott's

Fougeres marched along the boulevard in a state of joy which gave to his honest face an expression of pride.

He was like a schoolboy protecting a woman. He met Joseph Bridau, one of his comrades, and one of those

eccentric geniuses destined to fame and sorrow. Joseph Bridau, who had, to use his own expression, a few

sous in his pocket, took Fougeres to the Opera. But Fougeres didn't see the ballet, didn't hear the music; he

was imagining pictures, he was painting. He left Joseph in the middle of the evening, and ran home to make

sketches by lamplight. He invented thirty pictures, all reminiscence, and felt himself a man of genius. The

next day he bought colors, and canvases of various dimensions; he piled up bread and cheese on his table, he

filled a waterpot with water, he laid in a provision of wood for his stove; then, to use a studio expression, he

After two months' seclusion the Breton had finished four pictures. Again he asked counsel of Schinner, this

time adding Bridau to the invitation. The two painters saw in three of these pictures a servile imitation of

Dutch landscapes and interiors by Metzu, in the fourth a copy of Rembrandt's "Lesson of Anatomy."

Fougeres lowered his head like a sheep when it rains. Then he asked and obtained certain useful advice, and

retouched his pictures before taking them to Elie Magus. Elie paid him twentyfive francs apiece. At that

price of course Fougeres earned nothing; neither did he lose, thanks to his sober living. He made a few

excursions to the boulevard to see what became of his pictures, and there he underwent a singular

hallucination. His neat, clean paintings, hard as tin and shiny as porcelain, were covered with a sort of mist;

they looked like old daubs. Magus was out, and Pierre could obtain no information on this phenomenon. He

The painter went back to his studio and made more pictures. After seven years of continued toil Fougeres

managed to compose and execute quite passable work. He did as well as any artist of the second class. Elie

bought and sold all the paintings of the poor Breton, who earned laboriously about two thousand francs a year

At the Exhibition of 1829, Leon de Lora, Schinner, and Bridau, who all three occupied a great position and

were, in fact, at the head of the art movement, were filled with pity for the perseverance and the poverty of

their old friend; and they caused to be admitted into the grand salon of the Exhibition, a picture by Fougeres.

This picture, powerful in interest but derived from Vigneron as to sentiment and from Dubufe's first manner

as to execution, represented a young man in prison, whose hair was being cut around the nape of the neck. On

one side was a priest, on the other two women, one old, one young, in tears. A sheriff's clerk was reading

aloud a document. On a wretched table was a meal, untouched. The light came in through the bars of a

window near the ceiling. It was a picture fit to make the bourgeois shudder, and the bourgeois shuddered.

Fougeres had simply been inspired by the masterpiece of Gerard Douw; he had turned the group of the

"Dropsical Woman" toward the window, instead of presenting it full front. The condemned man was

substituted for the dying womansame pallor, same glance, same appeal to God. Instead of the Dutch

doctor, he had painted the cold, official figure of the sheriff's clerk attired in black; but he had added an old

woman to the young one of Gerard Douw. The cruelly simple and goodhumored face of the executioner

completed and dominated the group. This plagiarism, very cleverly disguised, was not discovered. The

510. Grassou de Fougeres (Pierre), rue de Navarin, 2. Deathtoilet of a Chouan, condemned to execution in

Though wholly secondrate, the picture had immense success, for it recalled the affair of the "chauffeurs," of

Mortagne. A crowd collected every day before the now fashionable canvas; even Charles X. paused to look at

it. "Madame," being told of the patient life of the poor Breton, became enthusiastic over him. The Duc

d'Orleans asked the price of the picture. The clergy told Madame la Dauphine that the subject was suggestive

of good thoughts; and there was, in truth, a most satisfying religious tone about it. Monseigneur the Dauphin

admired the dust on the stonefloor,a huge blunder, by the way, for Fougeres had painted greenish tones

suggestive of mildew along the base of the walls. "Madame" finally bought the picture for a thousand francs,

and the Dauphin ordered another like it. Charles X. gave the cross of the Legion of honor to this son of a

peasant who had fought for the royal cause in 1799. (Joseph Bridau, the great painter, was not yet decorated.)

This Salon of 1829 was to Pierre Grassou his whole fortune, fame, future, and life. Be original, invent, and

you die by inches; copy, imitate, and you'll live. After this discovery of a gold mine, Grassou de Fougeres

obtained his benefit of the fatal principle to which society owes the wretched mediocrities to whom are

intrusted in these days the election of leaders in all social classes; who proceed, naturally, to elect themselves

and who wage a bitter war against all true talent. The principle of election applied indiscriminately is false,

Nevertheless the modesty, simplicity, and genuine surprise of the good and gentle Fougeres silenced all envy

and all recriminations. Besides, he had on his side all of his clan who had succeeded, and all who expected to

succeed. Some persons, touched by the persistent energy of a man whom nothing had discouraged, talked of

"Perseverance in the arts should be rewarded. Grassou hasn't stolen his successes; he has delved for ten years,

That exclamation of "poor dear man!" counted for half in the support and the congratulations which the

painter received. Pity sets up mediocrities as envy pulls down great talents, and in equal numbers. The

newspapers, it is true, did not spare criticism, but the chevalier Fougeres digested them as he had digested the

Possessing, by this time, fifteen thousand francs, laboriously earned, he furnished an apartment and studio in

the rue de Navarin, and painted the picture ordered by Monseigneur the Dauphin, also the two church

pictures, and delivered them at the time agreed on, with a punctuality that was very discomforting to the

exchequer of the ministry, accustomed to a different course of action. Butadmire the good fortune of men

who are methodicalif Grassou, belated with his work, had been caught by the revolution of July he would

By the time he was thirtyseven Fougeres had manufactured for Elie Magus some two hundred pictures, all

of them utterly unknown, by the help of which he had attained to that satisfying manner, that point of

execution before which the true artist shrugs his shoulders and the bourgeoisie worships. Fougeres was dear

to friends for rectitude of ideas, for steadiness of sentiment, absolute kindliness, and great loyalty; though

"What a misfortune it is that Fougeres has the vice of painting!" said his comrades.

But for all this, Grassou gave excellent counsel, like those feuilletonists incapable of writing a book who

know very well where a book is wanting. There was this difference, however, between literary critics and

Fougeres; he was eminently sensitive to beauties; he felt them, he acknowledged them, and his advice was

instinct with a spirit of justice that made the justness of his remarks acceptable. After the revolution of July,

Fougeres sent about ten pictures a year to the Salon, of which the jury admitted four or five. He lived with the

most rigid economy, his household being managed solely by an old charwoman. For all amusement he visited

his friends, he went to see works of art, he allowed himself a few little trips about France, and he planned to

go to Switzerland in search of inspiration. This detestable artist was an excellent citizen; he mounted guard

duly, went to reviews, and paid his rent and provisionbills with bourgeois punctuality.

Having lived all his life in toil and poverty, he had never had the time to love. Poor and a bachelor, until now

he did not desire to complicate his simple life. Incapable of devising any means of increasing his little

fortune, he carried, every three months, to his notary, Cardot, his quarterly earnings and economies. When the

notary had received about three thousand francs he invested them in some first mortgage, the interest of

which he drew himself and added to the quarterly payments made to him by Fougeres. The painter was

awaiting the fortunate moment when his property thus laid by would give him the imposing income of two

thousand francs, to allow himself the otium cum dignitate of the artist and paint pictures; but oh! what

pictures! true pictures! each a finished picture! chouette, Koxnoff, chocnosoff! His future, his dreams of

happiness, the superlative of his hopesdo you know what it was? To enter the Institute and obtain the grade

of officer of the Legion of honor; to side down beside Schinner and Leon de Lora, to reach the Academy

before Bridau, to wear a rosette in his buttonhole! What a dream! It is only commonplace men who think of

Hearing the sound of several steps on the staircase, Fougeres rubbed up his hair, buttoned his jacket of

bottlegreen velveteen, and was not a little amazed to see, entering his doorway, a simpleton face vulgarly

called in studio slang a "melon." This fruit surmounted a pumpkin, clothed in blue cloth adorned with a

bunch of tintinnabulating baubles. The melon puffed like a walrus; the pumpkin advanced on turnips,

improperly called legs. A true painter would have turned the little bottlevendor off at once, assuring him

that he didn't paint vegetables. This painter looked at his client without a smile, for Monsieur Vervelle wore a

Fougeres glanced at Magus and said: "There's fat in it!" using a slang term then much in vogue in the studios.

Hearing those words Monsieur Vervelle frowned. The worthy bourgeois drew after him another complication

of vegetables in the persons of his wife and daughter. The wife had a fine veneer of mahogany on her face,

and in figure she resembled a cocoanut, surmounted by a head and tied in around the waist. She pivoted on

her legs, which were tap rooted, and her gown was yellow with black stripes. She proudly exhibited

unutterable mittens on a puffy pair of hands; the plumes of a firstclass funeral floated on an overflowing

bonnet; laces adorned her shoulders, as round behind as they were before; consequently, the spherical form of

the cocoanut was perfect. Her feet, of a kind that painters call abatis, rose above the varnished leather of the

shoes in a swelling that was some inches high. How the feet were ever got into the shoes, no one knows.

Following these vegetable parents was a young asparagus, who presented a tiny head with smoothly banded

hair of the yellowcarroty tone that a Roman adores, long, stringy arms, a fairly white skin with reddish spots

upon it, large innocent eyes, and white lashes, scarcely any brows, a leghorn bonnet bound with white satin

and adorned with two honest bows of the same satin, hands virtuously red, and the feet of her mother. The

faces of these three beings wore, as they looked round the studio, an air of happiness which bespoke in them

"So it is you, monsieur, who are going to take our likenesses?" said the father, assuming a jaunty air.

"Vervelle, he has the cross!" whispered the wife to the husband while the painter's back was turned.

"Should I be likely to have our portraits painted by an artist who wasn't decorated?" returned the former

Elie Magus here bowed to the Vervelle family and went away. Grassou accompanied him to the landing.

"Three hundred thousand francs of expectations, a house in the rue Boucherat, and a countryhouse at Ville

"Bottles and corks! bottles and corks!" said the painter; "they set my teeth on edge."

That idea entered the head of Pierre Grassou as the daylight had burst into his garret that morning.

While he posed the father of the young person, he thought the bottle dealer had a good countenance, and he

admired the face full of violent tones. The mother and daughter hovered about the easel, marvelling at all his

preparations; they evidently thought him a demigod. This visible admiration pleased Fougeres. The golden

"You must earn lots of money; but of course you don't spend it as you get it," said the mother.

"No, madame," replied the painter; "I don't spend it; I have not the means to amuse myself. My notary invests

my money; he knows what I have; as soon as I have taken him the money I never think of it again."

"I've always been told," cried old Vervelle, "that artists were baskets with holes in them."

"Well, well! if that isn't a joke!" exclaimed Vervelle. "Cardot is our notary too."

"Do pray hold still, Antenor," said the wife. "If you move about you'll make monsieur miss; you should just

"Oh! why didn't you have me taught the arts?" said Mademoiselle Vervelle to her parents.

"Virginie," said her mother, "a young person ought not to learn certain things. When you are marriedwell,

During this first sitting the Vervelle family became almost intimate with the worthy artist. They were to come

again two days later. As they went away the father told Virginie to walk in front; but in spite of this

separation, she overheard the following words, which naturally awakened her curiosity.

"Decoratedthirtyseven years oldan artist who gets ordersputs his money with our notary. We'll

consult Cardot. Hein! Madame de Fougeres! not a bad namedoesn't look like a bad man either! One might

prefer a merchant; but before a merchant retires from business one can never know what one's daughter may

come to; whereas an economical artistand then you know we love Art Well, we'll see!"

While the Vervelle family discussed Pierre Grassou, Pierre Grassou discussed in his own mind the Vervelle

family. He found it impossible to stay peacefully in his studio, so he took a walk on the boulevard, and

looked at all the redhaired women who passed him. He made a series of the oddest reasonings to himself:

gold was the handsomest of metals; a tawny yellow represented gold; the Romans were fond of red haired

women, and he turned Roman, etc. After two years of marriage what man would ever care about the color of

his wife's hair? Beauty fades,but ugliness remains! Money is onehalf of all happiness. That night when he

When the three Vervelles arrived on the day of the second sitting the artist received them with smiles. The

rascal had shaved and put on clean linen; he had also arranged his hair in a pleasing manner, and chosen a

very becoming pair of trousers and red leather slippers with pointed toes. The family replied with smiles as

flattering as those of the artist. Virginie became the color of her hair, lowered her eyes, and turned aside her

head to look at the sketches. Pierre Grassou thought these little affectations charming, Virginie had such

grace; happily she didn't look like her father or her mother; but whom did she look like?

During this sitting there were little skirmishes between the family and the painter, who had the audacity to

call pere Vervelle witty. This flattery brought the family on the doublequick to the heart of the artist; he

"You shouldn't give away your pictures in that way; they are money," said old Vervelle.

At the third sitting pere Vervelle mentioned a fine gallery of pictures which he had in his countryhouse at

Ville d'AvrayRubens, Gerard Douw, Mieris, Terburg, Rembrandt, Titian, Paul Potter, etc.

"Monsieur Vervelle has been very extravagant," said Madame Vervelle, ostentatiously. "He has over one

When Madame Vervelle's portrait was begun that of her husband was nearly finished, and the enthusiasm of

the family knew no bounds. The notary had spoken in the highest praise of the painter. Pierre Grassou was,

he said, one of the most honest fellows on earth; he had laid by thirtysix thousand francs; his days of

poverty were over; he now saved about ten thousand francs a year and capitalized the interest; in short, he

was incapable of making a woman unhappy. This last remark had enormous weight in the scales. Vervelle's

The day on which Fougeres began the portrait of Mademoiselle Virginie, he was virtually soninlaw to the

Vervelle family. The three Vervelles bloomed out in this studio, which they were now accustomed to

consider as one of their residences; there was to them an inexplicable attraction in this clean, neat, pretty, and

artistic abode. Abyssus abyssum, the commonplace attracts the commonplace. Toward the end of the sitting

the stairway shook, the door was violently thrust open by Joseph Bridau; he came like a whirlwind, his hair

flying. He showed his grand haggard face as he looked about him, casting everywhere the lightning of his

glance; then he walked round the whole studio, and returned abruptly to Grassou, pulling his coat together

over the gastric region, and endeavouring, but in vain, to button it, the button mould having escaped from its

"The British are after me" (slang term for creditors) "Gracious! do you paint such things as that?"

The Vervelle family, extremely shocked by this extraordinary apparition, passed from its ordinary red to a

"Five hundred. I've got one of those bulldog dealers after me, and if the fellow once gets his teeth in he

"That explains to me why you still make cheeks with pink tones like a perfumer's sign."

"Take Nature as you find her," said the great painter, going on with his lecture. "Mademoiselle is redhaired.

Well, is that a sin? All things are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your palette, and warm up

those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots; come, butter it well in. Do you pretend to have more sense

"If he would only paint the portrait of your Virginie it would be worth a thousand times more than mine,"

Hearing that reply the bourgeois beat a quiet retreat to his wife, who was stupefied by the invasion of this

ferocious animal, and very uneasy at his cooperation in her daughter's portrait.

"Here, follow these indications," said Bridau, returning the palette, and taking the note. "I won't thank you. I

can go back now to d'Arthez' chateau, where I am doing a diningroom, and Leon de Lora the tops of the

"Are you quite sure," said Virginie, "that he has done no harm to my portrait? He frightened me."

"Well, if he is a great artist, I prefer a great artist like you," said Madame Vervelle.

The phase of autumn so pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was just beginning. With the timidity of a

neophyte in presence of a man of genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out to his

countryhouse on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how little attraction a plain bourgeois family

"You artists," he continued, "want emotions, great scenes, and witty talk; but you'll find good wines, and I

rely on my collection of pictures to compensate an artist like you for the bore of dining with mere

This form of idolatry, which stroked his innocent selflove, was charming to our poor Pierre Grassou, so

little accustomed to such compliments. The honest artist, that atrocious mediocrity, that heart of gold, that

loyal soul, that stupid draughtsman, that worthy fellow, decorated by royalty itself with the Legion of honor,

put himself under arms to go out to Ville d'Avray and enjoy the last fine days of the year. The painter went

modestly by public conveyance, and he could not but admire the beautiful villa of the bottledealer, standing

in a park of five acres at the summit of Ville d'Avray, commanding a noble view of the landscape. Marry

He was received by the Vervelles with an enthusiasm, a joy, a kindliness, a frank bourgeois absurdity which

confounded him. It was indeed a day of triumph. The prospective soninlaw was marched about the

grounds on the nankeencolored paths, all raked as they should be for the steps of so great a man. The trees

themselves looked brushed and combed, and the lawns had just been mown. The pure country air wafted to

the nostrils a most enticing smell of cooking. All things about the mansion seemed to say:

Little old Vervelle himself rolled like an apple through his park, the daughter meandered like an eel, the

mother followed with dignified step. These three beings never let go for one moment of Pierre Grassou for

seven hours. After dinner, the length of which equalled its magnificence, Monsieur and Madame Vervelle

reached the moment of their grand theatrical effect,the opening of the picture gallery illuminated by lamps,

the reflections of which were managed with the utmost care. Three neighbours, also retired merchants, an old

uncle (from whom were expectations), an elderly Demoiselle Vervelle, and a number of other guests invited

to be present at this ovation to a great artist followed Grassou into the picture gallery, all curious to hear his

opinion of the famous collection of pere Vervelle, who was fond of oppressing them with the fabulous value

of his paintings. The bottlemerchant seemed to have the idea of competing with King Louis Philippe and

The pictures, magnificently framed, each bore labels on which was read in black letters on a gold ground:

Rembrandt Interior of a dissecting room. The physician van Tromp instructing his pupils.

In all, there were one hundred and fifty pictures, varnished and dusted. Some were covered with green baize

Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon his lips as he recognized half his

own pictures in these works of art. He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard

"Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle. The painter took pere Vervelle by the button of

his coat and led him to a corner on pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then the rage.

"Between ourselves, tell me what he made you pay for those I shall point out to you."

Together they walked round the gallery. The guests were amazed at the gravity in which the artist proceeded,

"Three thousand francs," said Vervelle in a whisper, as they reached the last, "but I tell everybody forty

"Forty thousand for a Titian!" said the artist, aloud. "Why, it is nothing at all!"

"Didn't I tell you," said Vervelle, "that I had three hundred thousand francs' worth of pictures?"

"I painted those pictures," said Pierre Grassou in Vervelle's ear, "and I sold them one by one to Elie Magus

"Prove it to me," said the bottledealer, "and I double my daughter's 'dot,' for if it is so, you are Rubens,

"And Magus is a famous picturedealer!" said the painter, who now saw the meaning of the misty and aged

look imparted to his pictures in Elie's shop, and the utility of the subjects the picturedealer had required of

Far from losing the esteem of his admiring bottlemerchant, Monsieur de Fougeres (for so the family

persisted in calling Pierre Grassou) advanced so much that when the portraits were finished he presented

At the present day, Pierre Grassou, who never misses exhibiting at the Salon, passes in bourgeois regions for

a fine portraitpainter. He earns some twenty thousand francs a year and spoils a thousand francs' worth of

canvas. His wife has six thousand francs a year in dowry, and he lives with his fatherinlaw. The Vervelles

and the Grassous, who agree delightfully, keep a carriage, and are the happiest people on earth. Pierre

Grassou never emerges from the bourgeois circle, in which he is considered one of the greatest artists of the

period. Not a family portrait is painted between the barrier du Trone and the rue du Temple that is not done

by this great painter; none of them costs less than five hundred francs. The great reason which the bourgeois

"Say what you will of him, he lays by twenty thousand francs a year with his notary."

As Grassou took a creditable part on the occasion of the riots of May 12th he was appointed an officer of the

Legion of honor. He is a major in the National Guard. The Museum of Versailles felt it incumbent to order a

battlepiece of so excellent a citizen, who thereupon walked about Paris to meet his old comrades and have

Madame de Fougeres adores her husband, to whom she has presented two children. This painter, a good

father and a good husband, is unable to eradicate from his heart a fatal thought, namely, that artists laugh at

his work; that his name is a term of contempt in the studios; and that the feuilletons take no notice of his

pictures. But he still works on; he aims for the Academy, where, undoubtedly, he will enter. Andoh!

vengeance which dilates his heart!he buys the pictures of celebrated artists who are pinched for means, and

he substitutes these true works of arts that are not his own for the wretched daubs in the collection at Ville

There are many mediocrities more aggressive and more mischievous than that of Pierre Grassou, who is,

Bridau, Joseph The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Distinguished Provincial at Paris A Start in Life

Modeste Mignon Another Study of Woman Letters of Two Brides Cousin Betty The Member for Arcis

Cardot (Parisian notary) The Muse of the Department A Man of Business Jealousies of a Country Town The

Grassou, Pierre A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Betty The Middle Classes Cousin Pons

Lora, Leon de The Unconscious Humorists A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Honorine Cousin

Magus, Elie The Vendetta A Marriage Settlement A Bachelor's Establishment Cousin Pons

Schinner, Hippolyte The Purse A Bachelor's Establishment A Start in Life Albert Savarus The Government