So these two did some good, and were happy, though more than once it chanced to them to have to go a whole day without tasting food of any sort.
I have said that René had genius,—a genius bold, true, impassioned, masterful,—such a genius as colors the smallest trifles that it touches. René could no more help putting an ideal grace into those little sweetmeat boxes—which sold at their very highest, in the booths of the fairs, at fifty centimes apiece—than we, the roses, can help being fragrant and fair.
Genius has a way of casting its pearls in the dust as we scatter our fragrance to every breeze that blows. Now and then the pearl is caught and treasured, as now and then some solitary creature pauses to smell the sweetness of the air in which we grow, and thanks the God who made us.
But as ninety-nine roses bloom unthanked for one that is thus remembered, so ninety-nine of the pearls of genius are trodden to pieces for one that is set on high and crowned with honor.
In the twilight of a dull day a little, feeble, brown old man climbed the staircase and entered our attic with shambling step.
We had no strangers to visit us: who visits the poor? We thought he was an enemy: the poor always do think so, being so little used to strangers.
René drew himself erect, and strove to hide the poverty of his garments, standing by his easel. Lili came to me and played with my leaves in her tender, caressing fashion.
“You painted this, M. René Claude?” asked the little brown old man. He held in his hand one of the bonbon boxes, the prettiest of them all, with a tambourine-girl dancing in a wreath of Provence roses. René had copied me with loving fidelity in the flowers, and with a sigh had murmured as he cast the box aside when finished: “That ought to fetch at least a franc!” But he got no more than the usual two sous for it.
The little man sat down on the chair which Lili placed for him.
“So they told me where I bought this. It was at a booth at St. Cloud. Do you know that it is charming?”