f Murger, with the workhouse at the end, terror of
children, boon of parents, Red Riding-Hood eaten by the wolf. It was
worn out a long time ago, that story. Nowadays, you know well that
artists are the most regular people in their habits on earth, that they
earn money, pay their debts, and contrive to look like the first man you
may meet on the street. The true Bohemians exist, however; they are the
backbone of our society; but it is in your own world especially that
they are to be found. _Parbleu!_ They bear no external stamp and
nobody distrusts them; but, so far as uncertainty, want of substantial
foundation in their lives is concerned, they have nothing to wish for
from those whom they call so disdainfully 'irregulars.' Ah! if we
knew how much turpitude, what fantastic or abominable stories, a black
evening-coat, the most correct of your hideous modern garments, can
mask. Why, see, Jenkins, the other evening at your house I was amusing
myself by counting them--all these society adventurers--"

The little old lady, pink and powdered, put in gently from her place:

"Felicia, take care!"

But she continued, without listening:

"What do you call Monpavon, doctor? And Bois l'Hery? And de Mora
himself? And--" She was going to say "and the Nabob?" but stopped
herself.

"And how many others! Oh, truly, you may well speak of Bohemia with
contempt. But your fashionable doctor's clientele, oh sublime Jenkins,
consists of that very thing alone. The Bohemia of commerce, of finance,
of politics; unclassed people, shady people of all castes, and the
higher one ascends the more you find of them, because rank gives
impunity and wealth can pay for rude silence."

She spoke with a hard tone, greatly excited, with lip curled by a savage
disdain. The doctor forced a laugh and assumed a light, condescending
tone, repeating: "Ah, feather-brain, feather-brain!" And his glance,
anxious and beseeching, sought the Nabob, as though to demand his pardon
for all these paradoxical impertinences.

But Jansoulet, far from appearing vexed, was so proud of posing to this
handsome artist, so appreciative of the honour that was being done him,
that he nodded his head approvingly.

"She is right, Jenkins," said he at last, "she is right. It is we who
are the true Bohemia. Take me, for example; take Hemerlingue, two of the
men who handle the most money in Paris. When I think of the point from
which we started, of all the trades through which we