“No,” said Joseph, “that is how they are copied.”
“How much do they pay you for that?”
“Eh! never enough; two hundred and fifty francs. But I study the manner of the masters and learn a great deal; I found out the secrets of their method. There’s one of my own pictures,” he added, pointing with the end of his brush to a sketch with the colors still moist.
“How much do you pocket in a year?”
“Unfortunately, I am known only to painters. Schinner backs me; and he has got me some work at the Chateau de Presles, where I am going in October to do some arabesques, panels, and other decorations, for which the Comte de Serizy, no doubt, will pay well. With such trifles and with orders from the dealers, I may manage to earn eighteen hundred to two thousand francs a year over and above the working expenses. I shall send that picture to the next exhibition; if it hits the public taste, my fortune is made. My friends think well of it.”
“I don’t know anything about such things,” said Philippe, in a subdued voice which caused Joseph to turn and look at him.
“What is the matter?” said the artist, seeing that his brother was very pale.
“I should like to know how long it would take you to paint my portrait?”
“If I worked steadily, and the weather were clear, I could finish it in three or four days.”
“That’s too long; I have only one day to give you. My poor mother loves me so much that I wished to leave her my likeness. We will say no more about it.”