The wife of Jean Francois was neutral salts.  She desired, no doubt, to do what was right and best, but she had no insight into her husband’s needs, and was incapable of guessing his latent genius.

As for the new wife’s mother and kinsmen, they regarded Jean Francois as simply lazy, and thought to crowd him into useful industry.  He could paint houses or wagons, and, then, didn’t the shipyard folks employ painters?

Well, I guess so.

Jean Francois still dreamed of art.

He longed to express himself—­to picture on canvas the emotions that surged through his soul.

Disillusionment had come, and he now saw that his wife was his mate only because the Church and State said so.  But his sense of duty was firm, and the thought of leaving her behind never came to him.

The portraits were painted—­the money in his pocket; and to escape the importunities and jeers of his wife’s relatives he decided to try Paris once more.

The wife was willing.  Paris was the gateway to pleasure and ambition.

But the gaiety of Paris was not for her.  On a scanty allowance of bread one can not be so very gay—­and often there was no fuel.

Jean Francois copied pictures in the Louvre and hawked them among the dealers, selling for anything that was offered.

Delaroche sent for him.  “Why do you no longer come to my atelier?” said the master.

“I have no money to pay tuition,” was the answer.

“Never mind; I’ll be honored to have you work here.”

So Jean Francois worked with the students of Delaroche; and a few respected his work and tried to help market his wares.  But connoisseurs shook their heads, and dealers smiled at “the eccentricities of genius,” and bought only conventional copies of masterpieces or studies of the nude.

Meantime the way did not open, and Paris was far from being the place the wife supposed.  She would have gone back to Cherbourg, but there was no money to send her, and pride prevented her from writing the truth to her friends at home.  She prayed for death, and death came.  The students at Delaroche’s contributed to meet the expenses of her funeral.  Jean Francois still struggled on.

Delaroche and others declared his work was great, but how could they make people buy it?

A time of peculiar pinching hardship came, and Jean Francois again bade Paris adieu and made his way back to Gruchy.  There he could work in the fields, gather varech on the seashore, and possibly paint portraits now and then—­just for amusement.

And thus he would live out the measure of his days.

The visit of Jean Francois to his boyhood’s home proved a repetition of the first.

Another woman married him.

Catherine Lemaire was not a brilliant woman, but she had a profound belief in her husband’s genius.

Possibly she did not understand him when he talked his best, but she made a brave show of listening, and did not cross him with any little whimsical philosophies of her own.