"My son has always been of a serious turn of mind," replied Madame André, "and I must say that the young men of all ranks seem to me very different to-day from those whom I used to see in my youth. My dear husband was a type of those men with fertile, ingenious and easily impressed imaginations, whose lives were filled with unexpected pleasures, and whose aim seemed to be the enjoyment of everything that was agreeable, rather than the ambitious pursuit of renown. He painted _chefs-d'œuvre_ for amusement, and no anxieties ever disturbed his mind. To-day the modern artists are tearing themselves to pieces to do better than their predecessors. Criticism has been invented. Monsieur Diderot, whom my husband used to see very often, taught him to have a higher opinion of himself than he would have thought of doing, and my little Julien would listen to that great intellect, devouring him with his searching, inquisitive great eyes. Then Monsieur Diderot would say: 'There's a child who has the sacred fire!' But my husband didn't want to have too many ideas put into his head. He thought that the beautiful should be keenly _felt_ and not studied overmuch. Was he right? He sought to embellish the imagination, not to overburden it. Julien was gentle and placid; he read and mused a great deal. His painting is more highly esteemed than his father's by genuine connoisseurs, and when he is talking of art you can see that he understands everything; but his work isn't so universally liked, and he doesn't care at all for society. His mind is full of all kinds of subjects of meditation, and when I say to him: 'You don't laugh, you are not in good spirits, you haven't the enthusiasm of your years,' he answers: 'I am happy as I am. I never feel the need of excitement. There are so many things to think about!'"