Among the real bohemians of the real bohemia I once knew a young man, Jacques D_____, a sculptor who showed signs of great talent. But poverty denied him the opportunity to realize his potential. He died of exhaustion in the month of March 1844, at Saint-Louis Hospital, in the Saint Victoire room, in bed 14

.I came to know Jacques in the hospital, where I myself was staying during a long illness. Jacques, as I mentioned, was an extremely promising artist but he didn't let it go to his head. During the two months I was near him, even while he felt cradled in the arms of death, I never once heard him complain or give way to those lamentations that make neglected artists seem so ridiculous. He died without any posturing, but with an awful grimace of agony. As I think back on his death, in fact, I’m reminded of one of the worst scenes I’ve ever witnessed in the whole parade of human suffering. Learning what had happened, Jacques's father came to claim his son's body and he haggled with the hospital office for a long time over the thirty-six francs they were charging. He also haggled so aggressively over the cost of the church service that they gave him a six franc discount. As the corpse was being placed into the coffin, the nurse removed the hospital sheet and asked one of Jacques's friends who would be paying for the shroud. The poor fellow didn't have a sou so he turned to the father, who became enraged and demanded to know if they ever going to stop bothering him.

The nurse, a nun who was present for this whole dreadful discussion, looked over at the body, and the words she spoke were tender and innocent: “Oh monsieur! We can't bury him like that. The poor boy! He’ll get so cold. At least give him a shirt so he doesn't arrive stark naked to meet our good Lord.”

The father gave the friend five francs to get a shirt but told him to go to a second-hand shop in Rue Grange-aux-Belles that sold used clothes.

“It’ll be cheaper,” he added.

I came to understand the cruelty of Jacques's father later; he was furious that his son had chosen to become an artist and his anger never subsided, not even as he faced the coffin.