“Did you know, monsieur,” said Flore to Rouget, “what your pictures were worth? How much did you say, Monsieur Joseph?”
“Well,” answered the painter, who had grown as red as a beetroot,—“the pictures are certainly worth something.”
“They say you estimated them to Monsieur Hochon at one hundred and fifty thousand francs,” said Flore; “is that true?”
“Yes,” said the painter, with childlike honesty.
“And did you intend,” said Flore to the old man, “to give a hundred and fifty thousand francs to your nephew?”
“Never, never!” cried Jean-Jacques, on whom Flore had fixed her eye.
“There is one way to settle all this,” said the painter, “and that is to return them to you, uncle.”
“No, no, keep them,” said the old man.
“I shall send them back to you,” said Joseph, wounded by the offensive silence of Max and Flore. “There is something in my brushes which will make my fortune, without owing anything to any one, even an uncle. My respects to you, mademoiselle; good-day, monsieur—”
And Joseph crossed the square in a state of irritation which artists can imagine. The entire Hochon family were in the salon. When they saw Joseph gesticulating and talking to himself, they asked him what was the matter. The painter, who was as open as the day, related before Baruch and Francois the scene that had just taken place; and which, two hours later, thanks to the two young men, was the talk of the whole town, embroidered with various circumstances that were more or less ridiculous. Some persons insisted that the painter was maltreated by Max; others that he had misbehaved to Flore, and that Max had turned him out of doors.