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Updated: May 23, 2025
The parched earth was thirsting for rain. They alighted just outside Villejuif. On their way through the little town, Desmahis went into a fruiterer's to buy cherries for the overheated citoyennes. The shop-keeper was a pretty woman, and Desmahis showed no signs of reappearing. Philippe Dubois shouted to him, using the nickname his friends constantly gave him: "Ho there! Barbaroux!... Barbaroux!"
Gamelin endeavoured to hold him back by his coat skirts, swearing his business was urgent. But Desmahis had already slipped away between horses, guards, swords and torches, and was in hot pursuit of the milliner's girl. It was ten o'clock in the forenoon. The April sun bathed the tender leafage of the trees in light.
Gamelin, coming closer, caught sight of Desmahis among the spectators; he was struggling to push a way through the press and cut across the line of march. He called out to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Desmahis turned his head. He was a young man with a handsome face and a stalwart person.
Desmahis sang to the tune of La Faridondaine: "Quelques-uns prirent le cochon De ce bon saint Antoine, Et lui mettant un capuchon, Ils en firent un moine. Il n'en coûtait que la façon...." All the same Desmahis was in a pensive mood. For the moment he was ardently in love with all the three women with whom he was playing forfeits, and was casting burning looks of soft appeal at each in turn.
"Then we shall not see 'Paméla'?" asked Desmahis. The Théâtre de la Nation was closed and the actors packed off to the Madelonnettes and to Pélagie. "Do you call that liberty?" cried Rose Thévenin, raising her beautiful eyes to heaven in indignant protest.
I will also pass lightly over that of M. de Margency, gentleman in ordinary of the king, an ancient member of the 'Coterie Holbachique', which he had quitted as well as myself, and the old friend of Madam d'Epinay from whom he had separated as I had done; I likewise consider that of M. Desmahis, his friend, the celebrated but short-lived author of the comedy of the Impertinent, of much the same importance.
He had already sketched out all his designs, had finished several and was eager to pass on to Desmahis such as were in a state to be engraved.
Évariste, inspired with a sudden love of nature, as he saw a troop of harvesters binding their sheaves, felt the tears rise to his eyes, while visions of concord and affection filled his heart. For his part, Desmahis was blowing the light down of the seeding dandelions into the citoyennes' hair.
Two other artists were of the party, the engraver Desmahis, who drew well, and an almost unknown man, Philippe Dubois, an excellent designer in the style of Robert. According to custom, the citoyenne Élodie with her friend the citoyenne Hasard accompanied the artists.
A free man again and with the citoyennes Élodie, Rose, and Julienne crowding round him, Desmahis looked at Philippe Dubois he did not like the man and suspected him of having played him a practical joke with a wry smile, and towering above him by a whole head: "Dubois," he told him, "if you call me Barbaroux again, I shall call you Brissot; he is a little fat man with a silly face, greasy hair, an oily skin and damp hands.
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