f leaving her behind never came to him.

The portraits were painted--the money in his pocket; and to escape the
importunities and jeers of his wife's relatives he decided to try Paris
once more.

The wife was willing. Paris was the gateway to pleasure and ambition.

But the gaiety of Paris was not for her. On a scanty allowance of bread
one can not be so very gay--and often there was no fuel.

Jean Francois copied pictures in the Louvre and hawked them among the
dealers, selling for anything that was offered.

Delaroche sent for him. "Why do you no longer come to my atelier?" said
the master.

"I have no money to pay tuition," was the answer.

"Never mind; I'll be honored to have you work here."

So Jean Francois worked with the students of Delaroche; and a few
respected his work and tried to help market his wares. But connoisseurs
shook their heads, and dealers smiled at "the eccentricities of genius,"
and bought only conventional copies of masterpieces or studies of the
nude.

Meantime the way did not open, and Paris was far from being the place the
wife supposed. She would have gone back to Cherbourg, but there was no
money to send her, and pride prevented her from writing the truth to her
friends at home. She prayed for death, and death came. The students at
Delaroche's contributed to meet the expenses of her funeral. Jean
Francois still struggled on.

Delaroche and others declared his work was great, but how could they make
people buy it?

A time of peculiar pinching hardship came, and Jean Francois again bade
Paris adieu and made his way back to Gruchy. There he could work in the
fields, gather varech on the seashore, and possibly paint portraits now
and then--just for amusement.

And thus he would live out the measure of his days.

The visit of Jean Francois to his boyhood's home proved a repetition of
the first.

Another woman married him.

Catherine Lemaire was not a brilliant woman, but she had a profound
belief in her husband's genius.

Possibly she did not understand him when he talked his best, but she made
a brave show of listening, and did not cross him with any little
whimsical philosophies of her own.

She was sturdy and strong of heart; privation was nothing to her; she
could endure all that Jean Francois could, and count it a joy to be with
him.

She was the consoler, not he; and when the mocking indifference of the
world passed the work of Jean Francois by, she said, "Who care