“Philippe.”
“Oh, ah! he’s sowing his wild oats; that fellow will make something of himself by and by.”
“But he has gone through the lesson of poverty; perhaps it was poverty which changed him to what he is. If he were prosperous he would be good—”
“You think, my dear mother, that he suffered during that journey of his. You are mistaken; he kept carnival in New York just as he does here—”
“But if he is suffering at this moment, near to us, would it not be horrible?”
“Yes,” replied Joseph. “For my part, I will gladly give him some money; but I don’t want to see him; he killed our poor Descoings.”
“So,” resumed Agathe, “you would not be willing to paint his portrait?”
“For you, dear mother, I’d suffer martyrdom. I can make myself remember nothing except that he is my brother.”
“His portrait as a captain of dragoons on horseback?”
“Yes, I’ve a copy of a fine horse by Gros and I haven’t any use for it.”