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Updated: May 3, 2025
Lampron went straight to his works. I should have awarded them the medaille d'honneur; an etching of a man's head, a large engraving of the Virgin and Infant Jesus from the Salon Carre at the Louvre, and the drawing which represents "Great Heavens! Sylvestre, she's perfectly lovely; she will make a great mistake if she does not come and see herself!"
"It's at Lampron's house, in his mother's room, where Monsieur Charnot can go and see it if he likes." "My father does not know of its existence," she said, with a glance at the slumbering man of learning. "Has he not seen it?" "No, he would have made so much ado about nothing. So Monsieur Lampron has kept the sketch? I thought it had been sold long ago."
He spoke the truth; his satisfaction was manifest, for I never have seen him rub the tip of his nose with the feathers of his quill pen so often as he did that afternoon, which was with him the sign of exuberant joy, all his gestures having subdued themselves long since to the limits of his desk. July 20th. I have seen Lampron once more. He bears his sorrow bravely.
Hide your sketches, Sylvestre; stuff them away in your portfolios, or your pockets; I care little, for I bear Jeanne's image in my heart, and can see it when I will, and I love her, I love her, I love her! What is to become of her and of me I can not tell. I hope without knowing what or why, or when, and hope alone is comforting. This afternoon, at two o'clock, I met Lampron in the Boulevard St.
He is nearly twenty years older than I. That explains his forbearance. Besides, between an artist like him and a dreamer like myself there is only the difference of handiwork. He translates his dreams. I waste mine; but both dream. Dear old Lampron! Kindly, stalwart heart! He has withstood that hardening of the moral and physical fibre which comes over so many men as they near their fortieth year.
"But you have an uncle." "We have quarrelled." "You might make it up again, on an occasion like this." "Out of the question; we quarrelled on her account; my uncle hates Parisiennes." "Damn it all, then! send a friend a friend will do under the circumstances." "There's Lampron." "The painter?" "Yes, but he doesn't know Monsieur Charnot. It would only be one stranger pleading for another.
It was useless; the artist within him had broken loose. Sitting down at the required distance on a gnarled root, right in the open, he went on with his work with no thought but for his art. The inevitable happened. Growing impatient over some difficulty in his sketch, Lampron shuffled his feet; a twig broke, some leaves rustled-Jeanne turned round and saw me looking at her, Lampron sketching her.
Poor child! Forget all this, Monsieur Fabien; you can do nothing to help. Be true to your youth, and tell us next time of Monsieur Charnot and Mademoiselle Jeanne." Dear Madame Lampron! I tried to console her; but as I never knew my mother, I could find but little to say. All the same, she thanked me and assured me I had done her good. January 1, 1885. The first of January!
"Good-day," he calls out, without raising his head, without knowing for certain who has come in, and goes on with the engraving he has in hand. I settle down at the end of the room, on the sofa with the faded cover, and, until Lampron deigns to grant me audience, I am free to sleep, or smoke, or turn over the wonderful drawings that lean against the walls.
The woods were still. Save for a swarm of gnats which hummed in a minor key around the sleeping Lampron, nothing stirred, not a leaf even. All nature was silent as it drank in the full sunshine. A murmur of distant voices stole on my ear. I rose, and crept through the birches and hazels to the edge of the glade.
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