"For you, dear mother, I'd suffer martyrdom. I can make myself remember nothing except that he is my brother." "His portrait as a captain of dragoons on horseback?" "Yes, I've a copy of a fine horse by Gros and I haven't any use for it." "Well, then, go and see that friend of his and find out what has become of him." "I'll go!" Agathe rose; her scissors and work fell at her feet; she went and kissed Joseph's head, and dropped two tears on his hair. "He is your passion, that fellow," said the painter. "We all have our hopeless passions." That afternoon, about four o'clock, Joseph went to the rue du Sentier and found his brother, who had taken Giroudeau's place. The old dragoon had been promoted to be cashier of a weekly journal established by his nephew. Although Finot was still proprietor of the other newspaper, which he had divided into shares, holding all the shares himself, the proprietor and editor "de visu" was one of his friends, named Lousteau, the son of that very sub-delegate of Issoudun on whom the Bridaus' grandfather, Doctor Rouget, had vowed vengeance; consequently he was the nephew of Madame Hochon. To make himself agreeable to his uncle, Finot gave Philippe the place Giroudeau was quitting; cutting off, however, half the salary. Moreover, daily, at five o'clock, Giroudeau audited the accounts and carried away the receipts. Coloquinte, the old veteran, who was the office boy and did errands, also kept an eye on the slippery Philippe; who was, however, behaving properly. A salary of six hundred francs, and the five hundred of his cross sufficed him to live, all the more because, living in a warm office all day and at the theatre on a free pass every evening, he had only to provide himself with food and a place to sleep in. Coloquinte was departing with the stamped papers on his head, and Philippe was brushing his false sleeves of green linen, when Joseph entered. "Bless me, here's the cub!" cried Philippe. "Well, we'll go and dine together. You shall go to the opera; Florine and Florentine have got a box. I'm going with Giroudeau; you shall be of the party, and I'll introduce you to Nathan." He took his leaded cane, and moistened a cigar. "I can't accept your invitation; I am to take our mother to dine at a table d'hote." "Ah! how is she, the poor, dear woman?" "She is pretty well," answered the painter, "I have just repainted our father's portrait, and aunt Descoings's. I have also painted my own, and I should like to give our mother yours, in the uniform of the dragoons of the Imperial Guard." "Very good." "You will have to come and sit." "I'm obliged to be in this hen-coop from nine o'clock till five." "Two Sundays will be enough." "So be it, little man," said Napoleon's staff officer, lighting his cigar at the porter's lamp.