I was seized with an eager desire to acquire it. But I had not a
halfpenny of my own, there was my difficulty! To overcome it, I laid
siege to my aunt Adelaide, who doted on her brother's children as if
they had been her own, and who never (and well the rogues knew it!)
could resist their wheedling. I succeeded, as I had hoped, and
Marilhat's picture became my property. But certain of the jury went and
complained to the King, and I was greeted with, "Oho! so you are going
to set yourself up in opposition! I've trouble enough already with those
artists! It's the Civil List (that means it's me) that takes them in at
the Louvre. I can't be the only judge as to what is accepted and what
isn't. I have to have a jury, the Institute is good enough to undertake
the job--all its members are dying of fright, and I shield them under my
own responsibility, just as I do my ministers, although it's contrary to
the letter of the law--and it's you, one of my own sons, who comes and
sets an example of insubordination! Much obliged to you, sir!"

My picture was inspected all the same I need hardly say the grand-
parents pronounced it frightful, a regular daub. I hung my head under
this double-barrelled censure, and drooped my ears like a whipped
spaniel, but I stuck to my opinion, and likewise to my Marilhat. I think
it was shortly after this little adventure that I added another "daub"
to my "gallery." One morning as I was busy modelling (for I dabbled in
sculpture too) in my sister Marie's studio, Ary Scheffer came in, and
began telling me about an unknown artist he had met, quite young, a man
of undoubted talent, who was in a terribly poverty-stricken condition.
Six hundred francs would take him out of his difficulties, and he would
give two small pictures, pendants, which he had just finished, in
exchange.

"What do they represent?" I inquired.