“My God! what is he doing?”

“Doing? who?”

“Philippe.”

“Oh, ah! he’s sowing his wild oats; that fellow will make something of himself by and by.”

“But he has gone through the lesson of poverty; perhaps it was poverty which changed him to what he is.  If he were prosperous he would be good—­”

“You think, my dear mother, that he suffered during that journey of his.  You are mistaken; he kept carnival in New York just as he does here—­”

“But if he is suffering at this moment, near to us, would it not be horrible?”

“Yes,” replied Joseph.  “For my part, I will gladly give him some money; but I don’t want to see him; he killed our poor Descoings.”

“So,” resumed Agathe, “you would not be willing to paint his portrait?”

“For you, dear mother, I’d suffer martyrdom.  I can make myself remember nothing except that he is my brother.”

“His portrait as a captain of dragoons on horseback?”

“Yes, I’ve a copy of a fine horse by Gros and I haven’t any use for it.”

“Well, then, go and see that friend of his and find out what has become of him.”

“I’ll go!”

Agathe rose; her scissors and work fell at her feet; she went and kissed Joseph’s head, and dropped two tears on his hair.

“He is your passion, that fellow,” said the painter.  “We all have our hopeless passions.”

That afternoon, about four o’clock, Joseph went to the rue du Sentier and found his brother, who had taken Giroudeau’s place.  The old dragoon had been promoted to be cashier of a weekly journal established by his nephew.  Although Finot was still proprietor of the other newspaper, which he had divided into shares, holding all the shares himself, the proprietor and editor “de visu” was one of his friends, named Lousteau, the son of that very sub-delegate of Issoudun on whom the Bridaus’ grandfather, Doctor Rouget, had vowed vengeance; consequently he was the nephew of Madame Hochon.  To make himself agreeable to his uncle, Finot gave Philippe the place Giroudeau was quitting; cutting off, however, half the salary.  Moreover, daily, at five o’clock, Giroudeau audited the accounts and carried away the receipts.  Coloquinte, the old veteran, who was the office boy and did errands, also kept an eye on the slippery Philippe; who was, however, behaving properly.  A salary of six hundred francs, and the five hundred of his cross sufficed him to live, all the more because, living in a warm office all day and at the theatre on a free pass every evening, he had only to provide himself with food and a place to sleep in.  Coloquinte was departing with the stamped papers on his head, and Philippe was brushing his false sleeves of green linen, when Joseph entered.

“Bless me, here’s the cub!” cried Philippe.  “Well, we’ll go and dine together.  You shall go to the opera; Florine and Florentine have got a box.  I’m going with Giroudeau; you shall be of the party, and I’ll introduce you to Nathan.”