The lamps were lighted, and the salads were being
made in Origny Sainte-Benoite by the river.
THE COMPANY AT TABLE
Although we came late for dinner, the company at table
treated us to sparkling wine. ‘That is
how we are in France,’ said one. ‘Those
who sit down with us are our friends.’ And
the rest applauded.
They were three altogether, and an odd trio to pass
the Sunday with.
Two of them were guests like ourselves, both men of
the north. One ruddy, and of a full habit of
body, with copious black hair and beard, the intrepid
hunter of France, who thought nothing so small, not
even a lark or a minnow, but he might vindicate his
prowess by its capture. For such a great, healthy
man, his hair flourishing like Samson’s, his
arteries running buckets of red blood, to boast of
these infinitesimal exploits, produced a feeling of
disproportion in the world, as when a steam-hammer
is set to cracking nuts. The other was a quiet,
subdued person, blond and lymphatic and sad, with
something the look of a Dane: ’Tristes
tetes de Danois!’ as Gaston Lafenestre used to
say.
I must not let that name go by without a word for
the best of all good fellows now gone down into the
dust. We shall never again see Gaston in his
forest costume—he was Gaston with all the
world, in affection, not in disrespect—nor
hear him wake the echoes of Fontainebleau with the
woodland horn. Never again shall his kind smile
put peace among all races of artistic men, and make
the Englishman at home in France. Never more
shall the sheep, who were not more innocent at heart
than he, sit all unconsciously for his industrious
pencil. He died too early, at the very moment
when he was beginning to put forth fresh sprouts,
and blossom into something worthy of himself; and
yet none who knew him will think he lived in vain.
I never knew a man so little, for whom yet I had
so much affection; and I find it a good test of others,
how much they had learned to understand and value
him. His was indeed a good influence in life
while he was still among us; he had a fresh laugh,
it did you good to see him; and however sad he may
have been at heart, he always bore a bold and cheerful
countenance, and took fortune’s worst as it
were the showers of spring. But now his mother
sits alone by the side of Fontainebleau woods, where
he gathered mushrooms in his hardy and penurious youth.
Many of his pictures found their way across the Channel:
besides those which were stolen, when a dastardly
Yankee left him alone in London with two English pence,
and perhaps twice as many words of English.
If any one who reads these lines should have a scene
of sheep, in the manner of Jacques, with this fine
creature’s signature, let him tell himself that
one of the kindest and bravest of men has lent a hand
to decorate his lodging. There may be better
pictures in the National Gallery; but not a painter
among the generations had a better heart. Precious
in the sight of the Lord of humanity, the Psalms tell
us, is the death of his saints. It had need to
be precious; for it is very costly, when by the stroke,
a mother is left desolate, and the peace-maker, and
peace-looker, of a whole society is laid in the ground
with Caesar and the Twelve Apostles.
