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.