Two years of Paris life had gone by, and the little fund that had not
been augmented by a single franc in way of income had dwindled sadly.

In six months it was gone.

They were penniless.

The mother sold her wedding-ring and the brooch her husband had given her
before they were married.

Then the furniture went to the pawnbroker's, piece by piece.

One day Ary came bounding up the stairs, three steps at a time. He burst
into the room and tossed into his mother's lap fifty francs.

When he got his breath he explained that he had sold his first picture.

Ary, the elder boy, was eighteen; Henri, the younger, was thirteen. "It
was just like a play, you see," said Ary Scheffer, long years afterward.
"When things get desperate enough they have to mend--they must. The
pictures I painted were pretty bad, but I really believe they were equal
to many that commanded large prices, and I succeeded in bringing a few
buyers around to my views. Genius may starve in a garret, if alone; but
the genius that would let its best friends starve, too, being too modest
to press its claims, is a little lacking somewhere."

Young Scheffer worked away at any subject he thought would sell. He
painted just as his teacher, Guerin, told him, and Guerin painted just
like his idol, David, or as nearly as he could.