The mother had a purpose.

One morning as she was petting Joseph while he was sketching a large picture (finished in after years and never understood), she said, as it were, casually and aloud,-- "My God! what is he doing ?" "Doing?
who ?" "Philippe." "Oh, ah! he's sowing his wild oats; that fellow will make something of himself by and by." "But he has gone through the lesson of poverty; perhaps it was poverty which changed him to what he is.

If he were prosperous he would be good--" "You think, my dear mother, that he suffered during that journey of his.
You are mistaken; he kept carnival in New York just as he does here--" "But if he is suffering at this moment, near to us, would it not be horrible ?" "Yes," replied Joseph.

"For my part, I will gladly give him some money; but I don't want to see him; he killed our poor Descoings." "So," resumed Agathe, "you would not be willing to paint his portrait ?" "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.