air, and extremely
elegant. As he perceived her, de Gery could not suppress an exclamation.

"You know her?" asked Andre Maranne.

"Why, yes. Mme. Jenkins, the wife of the Irish doctor. I have had supper
at their house this winter."

"She is my mother." And the young man added in a lower tone:

"Mme. Maranne made a second marriage with Dr. Jenkins. You are
surprised, are you not, to see me in these poor surroundings, while my
relatives are living in the midst of luxury? But, you know, the chances
of family life sometimes group together natures that differ very widely.
My stepfather and I have never been able to understand each other. He
wished to make me a doctor, whereas my only taste was for writing. So at
last, in order to avoid the continual discussions which were painful to
my mother, I preferred to leave the house and plough my furrow alone,
without the help of anybody. A rough business. Funds were wanting. The
whole fortune has gone to that--to M. Jenkins. The question was to
earn a livelihood, and you are aware what a difficult thing that is for
people like ourselves, supposed to be well brought-up. To think that
among all the accomplishments gained from what we are accustomed to call
a complete education, this child's play was the only thing I could find
by which I could hope to earn my bread. A few savings, my own purse,
slender like that of most young men, served to buy my first outfit and
I installed myself here far away, in the remotest region of Paris, in
order not to embarrass my relatives. Between ourselves, I don't expect
to make a fortune out of photography. The first days especially were
very difficult. Nobody came, or if by chance some unfortunate wight did
mount, I made a failure of him, got on my plate only an image blurred
and vague as a phantom. One day, at the very beginning, a wedding-party
came up to me, the bride all in white, the bridegroom with a
waistcoat--like that! And all the guests in white gloves, which they
insisted on keeping on for the portrait on account of the rarity of such
an event with them. No, I thought I should go mad. Those black
faces, the great white patches made by the dresses, the gloves, the
orange-blossoms, the unlucky bride, looking like a queen of Niam-niam
under her wreath merging indistinguishably into her hair. And all of
them so full of good-will, of encouragements to the artist. I began them
over again at least twenty times, and kept them till five o'clock