At four o’clock, Joseph crossed the open space which separated the Rouget house from the Hochon house,--a sort of avenue of weakly lindens, two hundred feet long and of the same width as the rue Grande Narette. When the nephew arrived, Kouski, in polished boots, black cloth trousers, white waistcoat, and black coat, announced him. The table was set in the large hall, and Joseph, who easily distinguished his uncle, went up to him, kissed him, and bowed to Flore and Max. “We have not seen each other since I came into the world, my dear uncle,” said the painter gayly; “but better late than never.” “You are very welcome, my friend,” said the old man, looking at his nephew in a dull way. “Madame,” Joseph said to Flore with an artist’s vivacity, “this morning I was envying my uncle the pleasure he enjoys in being able to admire you every day.” “Isn’t she beautiful?” said the old man, whose dim eyes began to shine. “Beautiful enough to be the model of a great painter.” “Nephew,” said Rouget, whose elbow Flore was nudging, “this is Monsieur Maxence Gilet; a man who served the Emperor, like your brother, in the Imperial Guard.” Joseph rose, and bowed. “Your brother was in the dragoons, I believe,” said Maxence. “I was only a dust-trotter.” “On foot or on horseback,” said Flore, “you both of you risked your skins.” Joseph took note of Max quite as much as Max took note of Joseph. Max, who got his clothes from Paris, was dressed as the young dandies of that day dressed themselves. A pair of light-blue cloth trousers, made with very full plaits, covered his feet so that only the toes and the spurs of his boots were seen. His waist was pinched in by a white waistcoat with chased gold buttons, which was laced behind to serve as a belt. The waistcoat, buttoned to the throat, showed off his broad chest, and a black satin stock obliged him to hold his head high, in soldierly fashion. A handsome gold chain hung from a waistcoat pocket, in which the outline of a flat watch was barely seen. He was twisting a watch-key of the kind called a “criquet,” which Breguet had lately invented. “The fellow is fine-looking,” thought Joseph, admiring with a painter’s eye the eager face, the air of strength, and the intellectual gray eyes which Max had inherited from his father, the noble. “My uncle must be a fearful bore, and that handsome girl takes her compensations. It is a triangular household; I see that.” At this instant, Baruch and Francois entered. “Have you been to see the tower of Issoudun?” Flore asked Joseph. “No? then if you would like to take a little walk before dinner, which will not be served for an hour, we will show you the great curiosity of the town.” “Gladly,” said the artist, quite incapable of seeing the slightest impropriety in so doing. While Flore went to put on her bonnet, gloves, and cashmere shawl, Joseph suddenly jumped up, as if an enchanter had touched him with his wand, to look at the pictures.