Quitting the Barnabites, Evariste Gamelin set off in the direction of the Place Dauphiné, now renamed the Place de Thionville in honour of a city that had shown itself impregnable.

Situated in the busiest quarter of Paris, the Place had long lost the fine stateliness it had worn a hundred years ago; the mansions forming its three sides, built in the days of Henri IV in one uniform style, of red brick with white stone dressings, to lodge splendour-loving magistrates, had had their imposing roofs of slate removed to make way for two or three wretched storeys of lath and plaster or had even been demolished altogether and replaced by shabby whitewashed houses, and now displayed only a series of irregular, poverty-stricken, squalid fronts, pierced with countless narrow, unevenly spaced windows enlivened with flowers in pots, birdcages, and rags hanging out to dry.  These were occupied by a swarm of artisans, jewellers, metal-workers, clockmakers, opticians, printers, laundresses, sempstresses, milliners, and a few grey-beard lawyers who had not been swept away in the storm of revolution along with the King’s courts.

It was morning and springtime.  Golden sunbeams, intoxicating as new wine, played on the walls and flashed gaily in at garret casements.  Every sash of every window was thrown open, showing the housewives’ frowsy heads peeping out.  The Clerk of the Revolutionary Tribunal, who had just left his house on his way to Court, distributed amicable taps on the cheeks of the children playing under the trees.  From the Pont-Neuf came the crier’s voice denouncing the treason of the infamous Dumouriez.

Evariste Gamelin lived in a house on the side towards the Quai de l’Horloge, a house that dated from Henri IV and would still have preserved a not unhandsome appearance but for a mean tiled attic that had been added on to heighten the building under the last but one of the tyrants.  To adapt the lodging of some erstwhile dignitary of the Parlement to the exigencies of the bourgeois and artisan households that formed its present denizens, endless partitions and false floors had been run up.  This was why the citoyen Remacle, concierge and jobbing tailor, perched in a sort of ’tween-decks, as low ceilinged as it was confined in area.  Here he could be seen through the glass door sitting cross-legged on his work-bench, his bowed back within an inch of the floor above, stitching away at a National Guard’s uniform, while the citoyenne Remacle, whose cooking stove boasted no chimney but the well of the staircase, poisoned the other tenants with the fumes of her stew-pots and frying-pans, and their little girl Josephine, her face smudged with treacle and looking as pretty as an angel, played on the threshold with Mouton, the joiner’s dog.  The citoyenne, whose heart was as capacious as her ample bosom and broad back, was reputed to bestow her favours on her neighbour the citoyen Dupont senior, who was one of the twelve constituting the Committee of Surveillance.  At any rate her husband had his strong suspicions, and from morning to night the house resounded with the racket of the alternate squabbles and reconciliations of the pair.  The upper floors were occupied by the citoyen Chaperon, gold and silver-smith, who had his shop on the Quai de l’Horloge, by a health officer, an attorney, a goldbeater, and several employes at the Palais de Justice.

Evariste Gamelin climbed the old-fashioned staircase as far as the fourth and last storey, where he had his studio together with a bedroom for his mother.  At this point ended the wooden stairs laid with tiles that took the place of the grand stairway of the more important floors.  A ladder clamped to the wall led to a cock-loft, from which at that moment emerged a stout man with a handsome, florid, rosy-cheeked face, climbing painfully down with an enormous package clasped in his arms, yet humming gaily to himself:  J’ai perdu mon serviteur.

Breaking off his song, he wished a polite good-day to Gamelin, who returned him a fraternal greeting and helped him down with his parcel, for which the old man thanked him.

“There,” said he, shouldering his burden again, “you have a batch of dancing-dolls which I am going to deliver straight away to a toy-merchant in the Rue de la Loi.  There is a whole tribe of them inside; I am their creator; they have received of me a perishable body, exempt from joys and sufferings.  I have not given them the gift of thought, for I am a benevolent God.”

It was the citoyen Brotteaux, once farmer of taxes and ci-devant noble; his father, having made a fortune in these transactions, had bought himself an office conferring a title on the possessor.  In the good old times Maurice Brotteaux had called himself Monsieur des Ilettes and used to give elegant suppers which the fair Madame de Rochemaure, wife of a King’s procureur, enlivened with her bright glances, ­a finished gentlewoman whose loyal fidelity was never impugned so long as the Revolution left Maurice Brotteaux in possession of his offices and emoluments, his hotel, his estates and his noble name.  The Revolution swept them all away.  He made his living by painting portraits under the archways of doors, making pancakes and fritters on the Quai de la Mégisserie, composing speeches for the representatives of the people and giving dancing lessons to the young citoyennes.  At the present time, in his garret into which you climbed by a ladder and where a man could not stand upright, Maurice Brotteaux, the proud owner of a glue-pot, a ball of twine, a box of water-colours and sundry clippings of paper, manufactured dancing-dolls which he sold to wholesale toy-dealers, who resold them to the pedlars who hawked them up and down the Champs-Elysees at the end of a pole, ­glittering magnets to draw the little ones’ eyes.  Amidst the calamities of the State and the disaster that overwhelmed himself, he preserved an unruffled spirit, reading for the refreshment of his mind in his Lucretius, which he carried with him wherever he went in the gaping pocket of his plum-coloured surtout.

Evariste Gamelin pushed open the door of his lodging.  It offered no resistance, for his poverty spared him any trouble about lock and key; when his mother from force of habit shot the bolt, he would tell her:  “Why, what’s the good?  Folks don’t steal spiders’-webs, ­nor my pictures, neither.”  In his workroom were piled, under a thick layer of dust or with faces turned to the wall, the canvases of his student years, ­when, as the fashion of the day was, he limned scenes of gallantry, depicting with a sleek, timorous brush emptied quivers and birds put to flight, risky pastimes and reveries of bliss, high-kilted goose-girls and shepherdesses with rose-wreathed bosoms.

But it was not a genre that suited his temperament.  His cold treatment of such like scenes proved the painter’s incurable purity of heart.  Amateurs were right:  Gamelin had no gifts as an erotic artist.  Nowadays, though he was still short of thirty, these subjects struck him as dating from an immemorial antiquity.  He saw in them the degradation wrought by Monarchy, the shameful effects of the corruption of Courts.  He blamed himself for having practised so contemptible a style and prostituted his genius to the vile arts of slavery.  Now, citizen of a free people, he occupied his hand with bold charcoal sketches of Liberties, Rights of Man, French Constitutions, Republican Virtues, the People as Hercules felling the Hydra of Tyranny, throwing into each and all his compositions all the fire of his patriotism.  Alas! he could not make a living by it.  The times were hard for artists.  No doubt the fault did not lie with the Convention, which was hurling its armies against the kings gathered on every frontier, which, proud, unmoved, determined in the face of the coalesced powers of Europe, false and ruthless to itself, was rending its own bosom with its own hands, which was setting up terror as the order of the day, establishing for the punishment of plotters a pitiless tribunal to whose devouring maw it was soon to deliver up its own members; but which through it all, with calm and thoughtful brow, the patroness of science and friend of all things beautiful, was reforming the calendar, instituting technical schools, decreeing competitions in painting and sculpture, founding prizes to encourage artists, organizing annual exhibitions, opening the Museum of the Louvre, and, on the model of Athens and Rome, endowing with a stately sublimity the celebration of National festivals and public obsequies.  But French Art, once so widely appreciated in England, and Germany, in Russia, in Poland, now found every outlet to foreign lands closed.  Amateurs of painting, dilettanti of the fine arts, great noblemen and financiers, were ruined, had emigrated or were in hiding.  The men the Revolution had enriched, peasants who had bought up National properties, speculators, army-contractors, gamesters of the Palais-Royal, durst not at present show their wealth, and did not care a fig for pictures, either.  It needed Regnault’s fame or the youthful Gerard’s cleverness to sell a canvas.  Greuze, Fragonard, Houin were reduced to indigence.  Prud’hon could barely earn bread for his wife and children by drawing subjects which Copia reproduced in stippled engravings.  The patriot painters Hennequin, Wicar, Topino-Lebrun were starving.  Gamelin, without means to meet the expenses of a picture, to hire a model or buy colours, abandoned his vast canvas of The Tyrant pursued in the Infernal Regions by the Furies, after barely sketching in the main outlines.  It blocked up half the studio with its half-finished, threatening shapes, greater than life-size, and its vast brood of green snakes, each darting forth two sharp, forked tongues.  In the foreground, to the left, could be discerned Charon in his boat, a haggard, wild-looking figure, ­a powerful and well conceived design, but of the schools, schooly.  There was far more of genius and less of artificiality in a canvas of smaller dimensions, also unfinished, that hung in the best lighted corner of the studio.  It was an Orestes whom his sister Electra was raising in her arms on his bed of pain.  The maiden was putting back with a moving tenderness the matted hair that hung over her brother’s eyes.  The head of the hero was tragic and fine, and you could see a likeness in it to the painter’s own countenance.

Gamelin cast many a mournful look at this composition; sometimes his fingers itched with the craving to be at work on it, and his arms would be stretched longingly towards the boldly sketched figure of Electra, to fall back again helpless to his sides.  The artist was burning with enthusiasm, his soul aspired to great achievements.  But he had to exhaust his energy on pot-boilers which he executed indifferently, because he was bound to please the taste of the vulgar and also because he had no skill to impress trivial things with the seal of genius.  He drew little allegorical compositions which his comrade Desmahis engraved cleverly enough in black or in colours and which were bought at a low figure by a print-dealer in the Rue Honore, the citoyen Blaise.  But the trade was going from bad to worse, declared Blaise, who for some time now had declined to purchase anything.

This time, however, made inventive by necessity, Gamelin had conceived a new and happy thought, as he at any rate believed, ­an idea that was to make the print-seller’s fortune, and the engraver’s and his own to boot.  This was a “patriotic” pack of cards, where for the kings and queens and knaves of the old style he meant to substitute figures of Genius, of Liberty, of Equality and the like.  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.  The one he deemed the most successful represented a soldier dressed in the three-cornered hat, blue coat with red facings, yellow breeches and black gaiters of the Volunteer, seated on a big drum, his feet on a pile of cannon-balls and his musket between his knees.  It was the citizen of hearts replacing the ci-devant knave of hearts.  For six months and more Gamelin had been drawing soldiers with never-failing gusto.  He had sold some of these while the fit of martial enthusiasm lasted, while others hung on the walls of the room, and five or six, water-colours, colour-washes and chalks in two tints, lay about on the table and chairs.  In the days of July, ’92, when in every open space rose platforms for enrolling recruits, when all the taverns were gay with green leaves and resounded to the shouts of “Vive la Nation! freedom or death!” Gamelin could not cross the Pont-Neuf or pass the Hotel de Ville without his heart beating high at sight of the beflagged marquee in which magistrates in tricolour scarves were inscribing the names of volunteers to the sound of the Marseillaise.  But for him to join the Republic’s armies would have meant leaving his mother to starve.

Heralded by a grievous sound of puffing and panting the old citoyenne, Gamelin’s widowed mother, entered the studio, hot, red and out of breath, the National cockade hanging half unpinned in her cap and on the point of falling out.  She deposited her basket on a chair and still standing, the better to get her breath, began to groan over the high price of victuals.

A shopkeeper’s wife till the death of her husband, a cutler in the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Germain, at the sign of the Ville de Chatellerault, now reduced to poverty, the citoyenne Gamelin lived in seclusion, keeping house for her son the painter.  He was the elder of her two children.  As for her daughter Julie, at one time employed at a fashionable milliner’s in the Rue Honore, the best thing was not to know what had become of her, for it was ill saying the truth, that she had emigrated with an aristocrat.

“Lord God!” sighed the citoyenne, showing her son a loaf baked of heavy dun-coloured dough, “bread is too dear for anything; the more reason it should be made of pure wheat!  At market neither eggs nor green-stuff nor cheese to be had.  By dint of eating chestnuts, we’re like to grow into chestnuts.”

After a long pause, she began again: 

“Why, I’ve seen women in the streets who had nothing to feed their little ones with.  The distress is sore among poor folks.  And it will go on the same till things are put back on a proper footing.”

“Mother,” broke in Gamelin with a frown, “the scarcity we suffer from is due to the unprincipled buyers and speculators who starve the people and connive with our foes over the border to render the Republic odious to the citizens and to destroy liberty.  This comes of the Brissotins’ plots and the traitorous dealings of your Petions and Rolands.  It is well if the federalists in arms do not march on Paris and massacre the patriot remnant whom famine is too slow in killing!  There is no time to lose; we must tax the price of flour and guillotine every man who speculates in the food of the people, foments insurrection or palters with the foreigner.  The Convention has set up an extraordinary tribunal to try conspirators.  Patriots form the court; but will its members have energy enough to defend the fatherland against our foes?  There is hope in Robespierre; he is virtuous.  There is hope above all in Marat.  He loves the people, discerns its true interests and promotes them.  He was ever the first to unmask traitors, to baffle plots.  He is incorruptible and fearless.  He, and he alone, can save the imperilled Republic.”

The citoyenne Gamelin shook her head, paying no heed to the cockade that fell out of her cap at the gesture.

“Have done, Evariste; your Marat is a man like another and no better than the rest.  You are young and your head is full of fancies.  What you say to-day of Marat, you said before of Mirabeau, of La Fayette, of Petion, of Brissot.”

“Never!” cried Gamelin, who was genuinely oblivious.

After clearing one end of the deal table of the papers and books, brushes and chalks that littered it, the citoyenne laid out on it the earthenware soup-bowl, two tin porringers, two iron forks, the loaf of brown bread and a jug of thin wine.

Mother and son ate the soup in silence and finished their meal with a small scrap of bacon.  The citoyenne, putting her titbit on her bread, used the point of her pocket knife to convey the pieces one by one slowly and solemnly to her toothless jaws and masticated with a proper reverence the victuals that had cost so dear.

She had left the best part on the dish for her son, who sat lost in a brown study.

“Eat, Evariste,” she repeated at regular intervals, “eat,” ­and on her lips the word had all the solemnity of a religious commandment.

She began again with her lamentations on the dearness of provisions, and again Gamelin demanded taxation as the only remedy for these evils.

But she shrilled: 

“There is no money left in the country.  The emigres have carried it all off with them.  There is no confidence left either.  Everything is desperate.”

“Hush, mother, hush!” protested Gamelin.  “What matter our privations, our hardships of a moment?  The Revolution will win for all time the happiness of the human race.”

The good dame sopped her bread in her wine; her mood grew more cheerful and she smiled as her thoughts returned to her young days, when she used to dance on the green in honour of the King’s birthday.  She well remembered too the day when Joseph Gamelin, cutler by trade, had asked her hand in marriage.  And she told over, detail by detail, how things had gone, ­how her mother had bidden her:  “Go dress.  We are going to the Place de Greve, to Monsieur Bienassis’ shop, to see Damiens drawn and quartered,” and what difficulty they had to force their way through the press of eager spectators.  Presently, in Monsieur Bienassis’ shop, she had seen Joseph Gamelin, wearing his fine rose-pink coat and had known in an instant what he would be at.  All the time she sat at the window to see the regicide torn with red-hot pincers, drenched with molten lead, dragged at the tail of four horses and thrown into the flames, Joseph Gamelin had stood behind her chair and had never once left off complimenting her on her complexion, her hair and her figure.

She drained the last drop in her cup and continued her reminiscences of other days: 

“I brought you into the world, Evariste, sooner than I had expected, by reason of a fright I had when I was big.  It was on the Pont-Neuf, where I came near being knocked down by a crowd of sightseers hurrying to Monsieur de Lally’s execution.  You were so little at your birth the surgeon thought you would not live.  But I felt sure God would be gracious to me and preserve your life.  I reared you to the best of my powers, grudging neither pains nor expense.  It is fair to say, my Evariste, that you showed me you were grateful and that, from childhood up, you tried your best to recompense me for what I had done.  You were naturally affectionate and tender-hearted.  Your sister was not bad at heart; but she was selfish and of unbridled temper.  Your compassion was greater than ever was hers for the unfortunate.  When the little ragamuffins of the neighbourhood robbed birds’ nests in the trees, you always fought hard to rescue the nestlings from their hands and restore them to the mother, and many a time you did not give in till after you had been kicked and cuffed cruelly.  At seven years of age, instead of wrangling with bad boys, you would pace soberly along the street saying over your catechism; and all the poor people you came across you insisted on bringing home with you to relieve their needs, till I was forced to whip you to break you of the habit.  You could not see a living creature suffer without tears.  When you had done growing, you turned out a very handsome lad.  To my great surprise, you appeared not to know it, ­how different from most pretty boys, who are full of conceit and vain of their good looks!”

His old mother spoke the truth.  Evariste at twenty had had a grave and charming cast of countenance, a beauty at once austere and feminine, the countenance of a Minerva.  Now his sombre eyes and pale cheeks revealed a melancholy and passionate soul.  But his gaze, when it fell on his mother, recovered for a brief moment its childish softness.

She went on: 

“You might have profited by your advantages to run after the girls, but you preferred to stay with me in the shop, and I had sometimes to tell you not to hang on always to my apron-strings, but to go and amuse yourself with your young companions.  To my dying day I shall always testify that you have been a good son, Evariste.  After your father’s death, you bravely took me and provided for me; though your work barely pays you, you have never let me want for anything, and if we are at this moment destitute and miserable, I cannot blame you for it.  The fault lies with the Revolution.”

He raised his hand to protest; but she only shrugged and continued: 

“I am no aristocrat.  I have seen the great in the full tide of their power, and I can bear witness that they abused their privileges.  I have seen your father cudgelled by the Duc de Canaleilles’ lackeys because he did not make way quick enough for their master.  I could never abide the Austrian ­she was too haughty and too extravagant.  As for the King, I thought him good-hearted, and it needed his trial and condemnation to alter my opinion.  In fact, I do not regret the old regime, ­though I have had some agreeable times under it.  But never tell me the Revolution is going to establish equality, because men will never be equal; it is an impossibility, and, let them turn the country upside down to their heart’s content, there will still be great and small, fat and lean in it.”

As she talked, she was busy putting away the plates and dishes.  The painter had left off listening.  He was thinking out a design, ­for a sansculotte, in red cap and carmagnole, who was to supersede the discredited knave of spades in his pack of cards.

There was a sound of scratching on the door, and a girl appeared, ­a country wench, as broad as she was long, red-haired and bandy-legged, a wen hiding the left eye, the right so pale a blue it looked white, with monstrous thick lips and teeth protruding beyond them.

She asked Gamelin if he was Gamelin the painter and if he could do her a portrait of her betrothed, Ferrand (Jules), a volunteer serving with the Army of the Ardennes.

Gamelin replied that he would be glad to execute the portrait on the gallant warrior’s return.

But the girl insisted gently but firmly that it must be done at once.

The painter protested, smiling in spite of himself as he pointed out that he could do nothing without the original.

The poor creature was dumfounded; she had not foreseen the difficulty.  Her head drooping over the left shoulder, her hands clasped in front of her, she stood still and silent as if overwhelmed by her disappointment.  Touched and diverted by so much simplicity, and by way of distracting the poor, lovesick creature’s grief, the painter handed her one of the soldiers he had drawn in water-colours and asked her if he was like that, her sweetheart in the Ardennes.

She bent her doleful look on the sketch, and little by little her eye brightened, sparkled, flashed, and her moon face beamed out in a radiant smile.

“It is his very likeness,” she cried at last.  “It is the very spit of Jules Ferrand, it is Jules Ferrand to the life.”

Before it occurred to the artist to take the sheet of paper out of her hands, she folded it carefully with her coarse red fingers into a tiny square, slipped it over her heart between her stays and her shift, handed the painter an assignat for five livres, and wishing the company a very good day, hobbled light-heartedly to the door and so out of the room.