He was a man of genius, and by custom a Parisian; but there was much in him of the calm and simple mountaineer, of the patient and prudent alpine peasant. His work, his mind, his modes of life, were those of a famous painter who was also a rich man, and could build for himself a house that was a temple of art; but his nature remained that which had been Anton's and Joachim's before him. He loved order, method, cleanliness in morals, serenity in the manner of his days; his paintings erred in almost too great an abundance of limpidity, of mathematical exactitude, of faultless perspective; they were so perfect that they seemed a reproach to a hurrying and careless world that loves brio and celerity. Never in all his life had a thought that was unwelcome and poisonous been harboured by him for more than a moment; his clear and calm mind had been always able to repel it. But the desire to return to that strange, unhealthy, luxuriant, mournful land where Musa dwelt grew upon him, and although he resisted he could not banish it. And he smarted with a sense of cowardice, remembering that he had allowed her to drive him from it.
