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Updated: June 21, 2025
Now an illustrious man, he owns a charming house in the rue de Berlin, not far from the hotel de Brambourg, where his friend Brideau lives, and quite close to the house of Schinner, his early master. In the maternal line the painter has no relation left except a cousin, the nephew of his mother, residing in a small manufacturing town in the department.
Georges presented the open case to Oscar and Schinner. "Phew!" said the great painter; "ten-sous cigars!" "The remains of those I brought back from Spain," said the adventurer. "Do you breakfast here?" "No," said the artist. "I am expected at the chateau. Besides, I took something at the Lion d'Argent just before starting." "And you?" said Georges to Oscar. "I have breakfasted," replied Oscar.
Madame Descoings persuaded the owner of the house to put a skylight in the roof. The garret was turned into a vast hall painted in chocolate-color by Joseph himself. On the walls he hung a few sketches. Agathe contributed, not without reluctance, an iron stove; so that her son might be able to work at home, without, however, abandoning the studio of Gros, nor that of Schinner.
The two friends walked up and down for some time, and several young men who knew Souchet or Schinner joined them. The painter's adventure, which the sculptor regarded as unimportant, was repeated by him. "So he, too, has seen that young lady!" said Souchet. And then there were comments, laughter, innocent mockery, full of the liveliness familiar to artists, but which pained Hippolyte frightfully.
"Then his wife can't be blamed if she finds better " said Schinner, but he did not finish his sentence. "I should say so!" resumed Oscar. "The poor man is so shrivelled and old you would take him for eighty! He's as dry as parchment, and, unluckily for him, he feels his position." "Most men would," said Pere Leger.
Then he shot at Schinner one of those side-looks full of shrewdness and cunning, diplomatic looks, whose expression betrays the discreet uneasiness, the polite curiosity of well-bred people, and seems to ask, when they see a stranger, "Is he one of us?" "This is our neighbor," said the old lady, pointing to Hippolyte.
The day before the night on which the dogs were to be poisoned, Joseph, who was nearly bored to death in Issoudun, received two letters: the first from the great painter Schinner, whose age allowed him a closer intimacy than Joseph could have with Gros, their master, and the second from Desroches. Here is the first, postmarked Beaumont-sur-Oise:
"What does Madame Schinner say to all this?" pursued the count; "for I believe you married, out of love, the beautiful Adelaide de Rouville, the protegee of old Admiral de Kergarouet; who, by the bye, obtained for you the order for the Louvre ceilings through his nephew, the Comte de Fontaine." "A great painter is never married when he travels," said Mistigris.
"Well, you're a bold dog," cried farmer Leger. "I should have kept out of it myself." "Especially as you could never have got through the doorway," replied Schinner. "So in I went," he resumed, "and I found two hands stretched out to meet mine. I said nothing, for those hands, soft as the peel of an onion, enjoined me to silence.
"Rome is fine only to those who love it; a man must have a passion for it to enjoy it. As a city, I prefer Venice, though I just missed being murdered there." "Faith, yes!" cried Mistigris; "if it hadn't been for me you'd have been gobbled up. It was that mischief-making tom-fool, Lord Byron, who got you into the scrape. Oh! wasn't he raging, that buffoon of an Englishman?" "Hush!" said Schinner.
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