Steinheil was next appointed to feed the vestal fire.  His picture was so-so, but would not sell.

Daubigny came next, and lived so high that inspiration got clogged, fatty degeneration of the cerebrum set in, and after a week he ceased to paint—­doing nothing but dream.

When the turn of the fourth man came, Meissonier had concluded that the race must be won by one and one, and his belief in individualism was further strengthened by an order for a group of family portraits, with a goodly retainer in advance.

Straightway he married Steinheil’s sister, with whom he had been some weeks in love, and the others feeling aggrieved that an extra mouth to feed, with danger of more, had been added to the “Commune,” declared the compact void.

Trimolet still thought well of the arrangement, though, and agreed, if Meissonier would support him, to secure fame and fortune for them both.

Meissonier declined the offer with thanks, and struck boldly out on his own account.

The woman who had so recklessly agreed to share his poverty must surely have had faith in him—­or are very young people who marry incapable of either faith or reason?  Never mind; she did not hold the impulsive young man back.

She couldn’t—­nothing but death could have stayed such ambition.  His will was unbending and his ambition never tired.

He was an athlete in strength, and was fully conscious that to be a good animal is the first requisite.  He swam, rowed, walked, and could tire out any of his colleagues at swordplay or skittles.

But material things were scarce those first few years of married life, and once when the table had bread, but no meat nor butter, he took the entire proceeds of a picture and purchased a suit of clothing of the time of Louis the Grand:  not to wear, of course—­simply to put in the “collection.”

Small wonder is it that, for some months after, when he would walk out alone the fond wife would caution him thus:  “Now Ernest, do not go through that old-clothes market—­you know your weakness.”

“I have no money, so you need not worry,” he would gaily reply.

Of those times of pinching want he has written, “As to happiness—­is it possible to be wretched at twenty, when one has health, a passion for art, free passes for the Louvre, an eye to see, a heart to feel, and sunshine gratis?”

But poverty did not last long.  Pictures such as this young man produced must attract attention anywhere.

He belonged to no school, but simply worked away after his own fashion; what he was bound to do was to produce a faithful picture—­sure, clear, strong, vivid.  He saw things clearly and his sympathies were acute, as is shown in every canvas he produced.

Meissonier had the true artistic conscience—­he was incapable of putting out an average, unobjectionable picture—­it must have positive excellence.  “There is a difference,” said he, “between a successful effort and a work of love.”  He painted only in the loving mood.