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Updated: June 9, 2025
All things are magnificent in painting. Put some vermillion on your palette, and warm up those cheeks; touch in those little brown spots; come, butter it well in. Do you pretend to have more sense than Nature?" "Look here," said Fougeres, "take my place while I go and write that note." Vervelle rolled to the table and whispered in Grassou's ear: "Won't that country lout spoilt it?"
To know to what extend this proposition would act upon the painter, and what effect would be produced upon him by the Sieur and Dame Vervelle, adorned by their only daughter, it is necessary to cast an eye on the anterior life of Pierre Grassou of Fougeres. When a pupil, Fougeres had studied drawing with Servin, who was thought a great draughtsman in academic circles.
Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon his lips as he recognized half his own pictures in these works of art. He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard Douw! He was twenty great masters all by himself. "What is the matter? You've turned pale!" "Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle.
The painter took pere Vervelle by the button of his coat and led him to a corner on pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then the rage. "You bought your pictures from Elie Magus?" "Yes, all originals." "Between ourselves, tell me what he made you pay for those I shall point out to you." Together they walked round the gallery.
The phase of autumn so pleasantly named "Saint Martin's summer" was just beginning. With the timidity of a neophyte in presence of a man of genius, Vervelle risked giving Fougeres an invitation to come out to his country-house on the following Sunday. He knew, he said, how little attraction a plain bourgeois family could offer to an artist.
The guests were amazed at the gravity in which the artist proceeded, in company with the host, to examine each picture. "Three thousand francs," said Vervelle in a whisper, as they reached the last, "but I tell everybody forty thousand." "Forty thousand for a Titian!" said the artist, aloud. "Why, it is nothing at all!"
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