stand guard over it. Elise, of course? Oh! no,
Andre had no right as yet to take his young friend's photograph away
from its protecting environment. It was a woman of about forty, fair,
with a sweet expression, and dressed in the height of fashion. When he
saw the face, de Gery could not restrain an exclamation.

"Do you know her?" said Andre Maranne.

"Why, yes--Madame Jenkins, the Irish doctor's wife. I took supper with
them last winter."

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

"Madame Maranne married Dr. Jenkins for her second husband. You are
surprised, are you not, to find me in such destitution when my parents
are living in luxury? But, as you know, chance sometimes brings very
antipathetic natures together in the same family. My father-in-law and
I could not agree. He wanted to make a doctor of me, whereas I had no
taste for anything but writing. At last, in order to avoid the constant
disputes, which were a source of pain to my mother, I preferred to
leave the house and dig my furrow all alone, without assistance from
any one. It was a hard task! money was lacking. All the property is in
the hands of that--of M. Jenkins. It was a question of earning my
living, and you know what a difficult matter that is for persons like
ourselves, well brought up as it is termed. To think that, with all the
knowledge included in what it is fashionable to call a thorough
education, I could find nothing but this child's play which gave me any
hope of being able to earn my bread! Some little savings from my
allowance as a young man sufficed to buy my first outfit, and I opened
a studio far away, at the very end of Paris, in order not to annoy my
parents. Between ourselves, I fancy that I shall never make my fortune
in photography. The first weeks especially were very hard. No one came,
or if by any chance some poor devil did toil up the stairs, I missed
him, I spread him out on my plate in a faint, blurred mixture like a
ghost. One day, very early in my experience, there came a wedding
party, the bride all in white, the husband with a waistcoat--oh! such a
waistcoat! And all the guests in white gloves which they insisted upon
having included in the photograph, because of the rarity of the
sensation. Really, I thought I should go mad. Those black faces, the
great white daubs for the dress, the gloves and the orange flowers, the
unfortunate bride in the guise of a Zulu queen, under her wreath which
melted