Chapter VII.

"To be an artist . . . . It is his hope, his faith, his ambition."

Genius, however great, will not make a man famous unless he works for fame. Robert felt this and had strength, perseverance, and courage to labor, for he was poor and of obscure name, and he knew what he could do, and was determined to do it. But, like all who struggle through this life, he had his depressions and his griefs, which he bore bravely; and if discouragement ever glided into his soul, he instantly resorted to prayer, and peace and repose would then spread their wings over him. He imposed upon himself the strict obligation of never wasting a moment of time, and chained himself to his work, as a galley slave is chained; accepting his present life, mercenary and prosaic as it is, with perfect resignation and happiness, feeling that God has made it thus, and that he must be thankful for it. Existence was a happiness to him, for his heart was good, and duty was to him perfect joy; and knowing he was necessary to the happiness of Madame Gaudin, he devoted himself to her as a son. By degrees her strength returned, and at last she was able to resume the management of the household, which placed more time at Robert's disposition, and his mind, rid of these cares, regains its elasticity and primitive vigor. Artistic reveries come back, the fire of creative inspiration fills his soul, and he stands before his canvas, on which the faint outlines of the Virgin are traced. Then another dream seizes him, and hours and days and weeks of patient labor are necessary to faithfully bring out his ideas, and at first all is chaos; but slowly the canvas becomes animated, and finally Robert, like Pygmalion, stands in ecstasy before his work. His body trembles with enthusiasm, his eyes moisten, his knees give way under him--and why this emotion? He has faithfully presented the scene where, between God and his mother, his happy childhood was passed. The picture is astonishingly and wonderfully true. Here stands out boldly the savage grandeur of Ecorcharde, with its rugged sides and deep ravines--there the valley through which the silver waters of the Dordogne run--the village of Bains--the church spire, the rectory--and all the crowning glory of this mountain, its woods and sombre verdure. There the little house where Robert had lived for twelve years, and, at the extremity of the valley, the peak of Sauci, which majestically crowned the whole. The memory of the young artist is faithful, and he forgets nothing. Standing on a clearing on the mountain side is a woman, and a child is playing near her; it is Robert and his mother. The sun is just sinking below the horizon, and sheds upon the scene the glory of its waves of gold and purple. Each day Robert gave many hours to this picture, in which he relived his childhood's days; and, when completed, it was a perfect masterpiece of grace and taste, and finished with much care. His touch was fresh and bold--the animals that reposed in the valley were perfect, the trees of exquisite foliage, and the lights and shades of delicious harmony.

One morning the young painter was at work, bringing out a stronger effect of light on his picture, when a loud knock at the door drew him from his work. He opened it, and standing before him was his late master.

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"Where have you been, my dear Robert?" asked the illustrious artist; "I have been so uneasy about you. Tell me why you have not been in my studio for so long a time?"

Robert, touched by this mark of interest, given with so much affability and simplicity, replied by a recital of the painful position in which he had been thrown by the sickness of Madame Gaudin, and told in such warm terms of her generous conduct to him, that the artist did not know which to admire most--the lively gratitude of the one, or beautiful devotion of the other.

The artist grasped his hand, and, pressing it warmly, said, "You have done your duty, and can never reproach yourself with ingratitude." Then, turning toward the picture, he explained, "Can this be your work? It is wonderful?" After a few moments, in which he was perfectly absorbed, he said, "Robert, you are ignorant of your talent; you know more than I do, and must be a great painter ere long." Then, clasping the stupefied young man in his arms, be pressed him to his heart in a generous transport of admiration.

Madame Gaudin, who had gone out to buy provisions for the day, stopped at the open door to ask what it could all mean; and when she understood what they were speaking about, she felt a great joy, and exclaimed, "I knew it; I knew he would be a great painter." Her excess of happiness made her steps a little trembling and uncertain; and, without caring for the presence of the stranger, she said to Robert, "God will bless thee, my boy; God will recompense thy Christian virtues, and all the affection thou hast had for a poor old woman like me." Then, noticing the artist, she said, "I cannot help it; excuse me, sir, but I must embrace him, I must press him to my heart, and then I will be content."

Robert yielded to her caresses in a manner which attested better than words the sincerity of his attachment for the worthy woman.

The approbation and praises given his work by his master made a profound impression on the mind of Robert.

"My dear boy," said the artist, "I will buy your picture at a good price. Each one of us should aid others to find the road on which he has gathered the flowers of fortune. God has blessed my work and made me rich, but I cannot enjoy the favors of fortune alone; I must aid others, and share with them the riches that God has loaned me. My purse, my credit, my protection are yours to-day, and I want you to use them without hesitation, for I cherish you as a pupil and love you as a friend. When I pay the debt of life, I hope to endow a great painter. Work, then, my boy; work for glory; you are now on the road to fame, and it will lead you to fortune." Before leaving he put in Madame Gaudin's hand a well-filled purse, and said, "Keep silence; say nothing of this to Robert."

Robert had another joy on this eventful day. Toward night he was going on an errand for Madame Gaudin, and near the Pont Neuf, by the Place Dauphine, he heard the voice of a man uttering a kind of lament for Napoleon. The voice was loud and strong, and in its modulations there was so much sorrow that he hastened toward the man, to see if his features verified a suspicion that came across his mind. He knew he had seen this man before. He was a street singer; and the longer he listened to him, the more convinced was he in his belief. Soon his eyes were fixed on a large wound in his forehead, and, no longer doubting, he called out, "O Cyprien! my good Cyprien!" at the same time holding out his hand.

"Pardon--excuse me--I do not know you."

"But are you not Cyprien Hardy, ex-grenadier of the Imperial Guards?" said Robert.

"I am no other person; but I can't remember to have seen you before."

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"I remember you," said Robert, with expression. "The little orphan that you took before the palace at Fontainebleau and conducted to Paris, although eight years ago, has not forgotten his protector and friend, and now wishes to shake hands with him; you will not refuse me that pleasure surely?"

"Ah! truly no--a thousand times no--I cannot refuse. Touched there," said he, putting his hand on his heart, "I know it is Robert who speaks to me; my little Robert, grown to be a man. You have changed much, young man, and so have I; but that does not matter; I have suffered cruelly. Oh my loved emperor! if I could only go to him."

"Come with me," said Robert; "we can talk entirely as we please when alone; come with me and I will take you to a person who knows you already, and who, I am certain beforehand, will be glad to see you."

The idle and curious people who were standing by when this touching recognition took place all walked off and left the place clear to our friends.

"A thousand thunders, Mister Robert, you are no prouder now in Paris than when we came in together, but you walk too fast for my old legs."

"Pardon me, Cyprien," said he, stopping quickly, "but I am so anxious to get you home that I forget you may be fatigued and may need my arm. Take it, my friend, for it is sure, like my affection for you; take it and we can walk faster. I am afraid Madame Gaudin will be uneasy if I stay out so long, and I do not like to give her the least uneasiness."

"Oh!" said the soldier, stretching up, for he was bent more by grief than years, "you are a worthy young man, and not proud at all. You do not blush to give your arm to a brigand of the Loire; for that is what we poor soldiers who regret our emperor are called. But tell me, who is this Madame Gaudin--what in the deuce do you call her?"

"Gaudin, my good Cyprien."

"Gaudin! Oh! well, I suppose she is some particular person, is she?"

"She is a good and excellent woman, to whom I owe all that I am, and who has made every sacrifice for me, and whom I love with all my heart."

"Ah! I understand; it is a widow that wants to catch you?"

"Oh! no, my good Cyprien," said Robert, laughing; "it is a person that you know, the old housekeeper of the lamented Abbé Verneuil. You know the priest who gave me so sweet a welcome when I arrived in Paris, and who placed me at the house of Madame de Vernanges?"

"Yes, yes; it comes back to my memory now, and I took a bitter hatred against her the day I pulled the door bell at the curé's. She looked at me with a pair of eyes that shone like balls of fire, because I twisted my mustache when I spoke to her. Well, what has become of the priest?"

"Alas! he is dead, and much too soon for me. Oh! it was one of my dark days, Cyprien."

"The same as mine for my emperor. I weep for him as you weep for the curé."

"We have good reason, my friend, to remember such men, and to forget them would be to forget ourselves."

"So you tell me, old Gaudin is living with you?"

"No, no; I should have told you I lived with the dear, good woman; for since the death of the abbé this generous woman has provided for all my wants, spent for me her hard savings, and in every way tried to console me for what I had lost. Yes, my friend, this good Madame Gaudin pushed forward my taste for drawing and painting; and I thank her from the depths of my heart, and can say without vanity that these sacrifices have not been lost. I am rejoiced that I can give her some happiness, and it may be that in the turning of the wheel of fortune I may gain wealth, and all that I have and all that I may ever have shall be hers, for she has done everything for me."

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"Certainly," said Cyprien, "and I embrace the good woman with my heart," mounting slowly as he said it, the four steps that led to their house. Robert had gone in ahead of him and returned with Madame Gaudin, who received the old soldier kindly, and feasted him as a friend, making his lonely and bruised heart feel happier than it had for a long time. After supper Robert asked him to tell them all that had happened him since they last met.

"There is but one subject for me, my dear Robert," said he, "and that is my emperor. I have so much joy and so much sorrow when I pronounce this cherished name; I am so moved when I recall the days when fortune abandoned him, that it is almost better for me not to revert to the subject; but, since you wish it, I will commence. When we had seen the last of the Little Corporal, and I found I could do nothing more for him, I commenced singing his praises through the streets, even at the risk of being imprisoned; and now he is dead," said he, with a melancholy air--"died on that lonely rock where he was held a captive, and the only hope I have left is in heaven."

He looked so tired now that Robert made him go to bed, and before he was up in the morning ran out and brought him suitable clothes, so that when he awakened he found new ones instead of the rags he had laid on his bed. "I want Cyprien to stay with me," said Robert, "for he has been a faithful soldier, and I am young, and can work for us both;" but it was a difficult matter to get his consent for this arrangement, and he had to tell him many times that he would be so useful to him, and that he really needed him before he would accept the offer. Finally he agreed to become an inmate of the modest household. He mixed colors for the young painter, rendered little services to Madame Gaudin, who did all she could to aid Robert to make him happy. From this time God seemed to open to him the treasures of the choicest favors, and to spread them in profusion on the head of the young painter. Warmly recommended to the world by the great artist who had been his master, esteemed for his excellent conduct, and justly appreciated for his talent, which was now burning in all its lustre, he could look forward to a happy future. His mother's prediction was being gradually accomplished, and this aided him. Whenever he sat down to composing, he first implored the assistance of God, with the firm belief that it would not be refused; and it was not, for the blessed Lord crowns with benefits those who serve him with love. Nothing gives courage like the certainty of success; and, full of an indefatigable ardor for his art, he worked hard, disdaining the vain pleasures of the world, and his labor was recompensed. As he advanced in age, the love of his art consumed him the more, and in place of the wild enthusiasm he felt at first he was filled with a deep and serious sentiment, and wanted to study the old masters under the bright sky of Italy. The only drawback he had ever had to his dreams of studying there was the thought of leaving Madame Gaudin alone; but now that Cyprien was with her, he would keep her company during his absence. He was too firmly convinced of the old man's affection to doubt for a moment that he would fail to fulfill any instructions he might give him; but before leaving France he wished to visit his native mountain, and pray on the grave of his mother. He was now twenty-one years of age, and had not forgotten the package he was to receive when he attained his majority, and which he felt sure contained some instructions from his well-beloved mother, which it would he a pleasure for him to obey. After quieting his fears about Cyprien and poor Madame Gaudin, he wiped away the tears of the good woman, embraced her tenderly, and, after receiving Cyprien's promise to take good care of the charge confided to his friendship, Robert set out for l'Auvergne.

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