This discovery exerted a decisive influence on Monsieur Antoine's life. He had always despised flowers: it was probable that he would never really understand them, for he was entirely devoid of the artistic sense; but his vanity, which was stifling him for lack of nourishment, pounced upon that windfall and pointed out to him the only way in which he could attain renown. He had a brother who painted flowers, who interpreted them, who loved them and gave his life to them. His brother was much admired; a trivial sketch from his brush made more noise than all of his older brother's great wealth. The older brother knew it, and was jealous of him. He could never hear the word art mentioned without shrugging his shoulders. He considered that the world was unjust and idiotic to be amused by trifles and not to admire the shrewdness of a man who, having started from nothing, counted his gold-pieces by the shovelful. He was disappointed, perturbed in mind.—But suddenly all was changed; he, too, was going to become a celebrity. The flowers which his brother summoned forth from the canvas he would summon from the earth, and they would not be mere every-day flowers which everybody knew and could name at sight; they would be rarities, plants from the four corners of the world, which scholars would have to cudgel their brains to define and classify and baptize. The most wonderful should bear his name! It had been suggested that his name should be given to several of his nurslings, but there was no hurry, since his collection was enriched every year by some marvel from the metropolis. He determined to wait, and was still waiting for a certain lily, which was likely to surpass all the rest, and which should bear, in addition to its generic name, the specific designation of Antonia Thierrii.
There was still time enough, for the uncle, although seventy-five years old, was still hale and hearty. He was a short man, rather slight, with a very good figure, but the hands hardened by constant contact with the soil, the skin tanned by constant exposure to the air, the neglected hair and dusty clothes, the back bent by bodily toil, presented the incongruous image of a villager with rustic manners, tenacious in his ideas, of an overbearing and surly disposition, ungrammatical, imperious and peremptory, planted in the heart of Paris, in a mansion of which he was the heedless and preoccupied master.
Marcel saluted his uncle with more familiarity than deference. He knew that flattery would be a waste of time; that the ex-armorer could be brought to terms on any subject only by a contest in obstinacy, in harsh language at need. He knew that his first impulse would be to say no; that no perhaps would be his last word; but that, in order to obtain one poor yes among a hundred noes he must fight without losing heart for a moment. Marcel was of a stout temper—it was a family trait—and he was so accustomed to fighting, especially against his uncle, that he derived a sort of painful pleasure from that occupation, which would have disgusted an artist in an instant.
"I have brought you something to sign," he began.
"I will not sign anything; my word is good enough."
"True, with those who know you."
"Everybody knows me."
"Almost everybody; but I am dealing with idiots. Come, sign, sign!"
"No, you might just as well sign it. My word's as good as gold; all the worse for the man who doubts it."
"Then you will see the creditor take possession of the house at Sèvres. He will be satisfied then, no doubt, but until then he will doubt my authority."