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“One hundred thousand francs of ‘dot’!”

“Yes, but what a family!”

“Three hundred thousand francs of expectations, a house in the rue Boucherat, and a country-house at Ville d’Avray!”

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

“Safe from want for the rest of your days,” said Elie Magus as he departed.

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 calf threw upon the family its fantastic reflections.

“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.”

“Who is your notary–if it is not indiscreet to ask?” said Madame Vervelle.

“A good fellow, all round,” replied Grassou. “His name is Cardot.”

“Well, well! if that isn’t a joke!” exclaimed Vervelle. “Cardot is our notary too.”

“Take care! don’t move,” said the painter.

“Do pray hold still, Antenor,” said the wife. “If you move about you’ll make monsieur miss; you should just see him working, and then you’d understand.”

“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 married–well, till then, keep quiet.”

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.

“Decorated–thirty-seven years old–an artist who gets orders–puts his money with our notary. We’ll consult Cardot. Hein! Madame de Fougeres! not a bad name–doesn’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 artist–and 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 red-haired 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 one-half of all happiness. That night when he went to bed the painter had come to think Virginie Vervelle charming.

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 double-quick to the heart of the artist; he gave a drawing to the daughter, and a sketch to the mother.