Genius, however great, will not make a man famous unless he works for fame. Robert felt this and had strength, perseverance, and courage to labor, for he was poor and of obscure name, and he knew what he could do, and was determined to do it. But, like all who struggle through this life, he had his depressions and his griefs, which he bore bravely; and if discouragement ever glided into his soul, he instantly resorted to prayer, and peace and repose would then spread their wings over him. He imposed upon himself the strict obligation of never wasting a moment of time, and chained himself to his work, as a galley slave is chained; accepting his present life, mercenary and prosaic as it is, with perfect resignation and happiness, feeling that God has made it thus, and that he must be thankful for it. Existence was a happiness to him, for his heart was good, and duty was to him perfect joy; and knowing he was necessary to the happiness of Madame Gaudin, he devoted himself to her as a son. By degrees her strength returned, and at last she was able to resume the management of the household, which placed more time at Robert's disposition, and his mind, rid of these cares, regains its elasticity and primitive vigor. Artistic reveries come back, the fire of creative inspiration fills his soul, and he stands before his canvas, on which the faint outlines of the Virgin are traced. Then another dream seizes him, and hours and days and weeks of patient labor are necessary to faithfully bring out his ideas, and at first all is chaos; but slowly the canvas becomes animated, and finally Robert, like Pygmalion, stands in ecstasy before his work. His body trembles with enthusiasm, his eyes moisten, his knees give way under him—and why this emotion? He has faithfully presented the scene where, between God and his mother, his happy childhood was passed. The picture is astonishingly and wonderfully true. Here stands out boldly the savage grandeur of Ecorcharde, with its rugged sides and deep ravines—there the valley through which the silver waters of the Dordogne run—the village of Bains—the church spire, the rectory—and all the crowning glory of this mountain, its woods and sombre verdure. There the little house where Robert had lived for twelve years, and, at the extremity of the valley, the peak of Sauci, which majestically crowned the whole. The memory of the young artist is faithful, and he forgets nothing. Standing on a clearing on the mountain side is a woman, and a child is playing near her; it is Robert and his mother. The sun is just sinking below the horizon, and sheds upon the scene the glory of its waves of gold and purple. Each day Robert gave many hours to this picture, in which he relived his childhood's days; and, when completed, it was a perfect masterpiece of grace and taste, and finished with much care. His touch was fresh and bold—the animals that reposed in the valley were perfect, the trees of exquisite foliage, and the lights and shades of delicious harmony.
One morning the young painter was at work, bringing out a stronger effect of light on his picture, when a loud knock at the door drew him from his work. He opened it, and standing before him was his late master.
"Where have you been, my dear Robert?" asked the illustrious artist; "I have been so uneasy about you. Tell me why you have not been in my studio for so long a time?"
Robert, touched by this mark of interest, given with so much affability and simplicity, replied by a recital of the painful position in which he had been thrown by the sickness of Madame Gaudin, and told in such warm terms of her generous conduct to him, that the artist did not know which to admire most—the lively gratitude of the one, or beautiful devotion of the other.
The artist grasped his hand, and, pressing it warmly, said, "You have done your duty, and can never reproach yourself with ingratitude." Then, turning toward the picture, he explained, "Can this be your work? It is wonderful?" After a few moments, in which he was perfectly absorbed, he said, "Robert, you are ignorant of your talent; you know more than I do, and must be a great painter ere long." Then, clasping the stupefied young man in his arms, be pressed him to his heart in a generous transport of admiration.
Madame Gaudin, who had gone out to buy provisions for the day, stopped at the open door to ask what it could all mean; and when she understood what they were speaking about, she felt a great joy, and exclaimed, "I knew it; I knew he would be a great painter." Her excess of happiness made her steps a little trembling and uncertain; and, without caring for the presence of the stranger, she said to Robert, "God will bless thee, my boy; God will recompense thy Christian virtues, and all the affection thou hast had for a poor old woman like me." Then, noticing the artist, she said, "I cannot help it; excuse me, sir, but I must embrace him, I must press him to my heart, and then I will be content."
Robert yielded to her caresses in a manner which attested better than words the sincerity of his attachment for the worthy woman.
The approbation and praises given his work by his master made a profound impression on the mind of Robert.
"My dear boy," said the artist, "I will buy your picture at a good price. Each one of us should aid others to find the road on which he has gathered the flowers of fortune. God has blessed my work and made me rich, but I cannot enjoy the favors of fortune alone; I must aid others, and share with them the riches that God has loaned me. My purse, my credit, my protection are yours to-day, and I want you to use them without hesitation, for I cherish you as a pupil and love you as a friend. When I pay the debt of life, I hope to endow a great painter. Work, then, my boy; work for glory; you are now on the road to fame, and it will lead you to fortune." Before leaving he put in Madame Gaudin's hand a well-filled purse, and said, "Keep silence; say nothing of this to Robert."