artist, were hated secretly as rivals; certain projects of duels, after the American fashion, were profoundly considered.  To say that Maria was not a little flattered to see all these admirers turn timidly and respectfully toward her; to pretend that she took off her hat and hung it on one corner of her easel because the heat from the furnace gave her neuralgia and not to show her beautiful hair, would be as much of a lie as a politician’s promise.  However, the little darling was very serious, or at least tried to be.  She worked conscientiously and made some progress.  Her last copy of the portrait of that Marquise who holds a pug dog in her lap, with a ribbon about his neck, was not very bad.  This copy procured a piece of good luck for the young artist.

Pere Issacar, a bric-a-brac merchant on the Quay Voltairean—­an old-fashioned Jew with a filthy overcoat, the very sight of which made one long to tear it off—­approached Maria one day, just as she was about to sketch a rose in the Marquise’s powdered wig, and after raising a hat greasy enough to make the soup for a whole regiment, said to her: 

“Matemoiselle, vould you make me von dozen vamily bordraits?”

The young girl did not at first understand his abominable language, but at last he made her comprehend.

Every thing is bought nowadays, even rank, provided, of course, that one has a purse sufficiently well filled.  Nothing is simpler!  In return for a little money you can procure at the Vatican—­second corridor on your right, third door at the left—­a brand-new title of Roman Count.  A heraldic agency—­see advertisement—­will plant and make grow at your will a genealogical tree, under whose shade you can give a country breakfast to twenty-five people.  You buy a castle with port-holes—­port-holes are necessary—­in a corner of some reactionary province.  You call upon the lords of the surrounding castles with a gold fleur-de-lys in your cravat.  You pose as an enraged Legitimist and ferocious Clerical.  You give dinners and hunting parties, and the game is won.  I will wager that your son will marry into a Faubourg St.-Germain family, a family which descends authentically from the Crusaders.

In order to execute this agreeable buffoonery, you must not forget certain accessories—­particularly portraits of your ancestors.  They should ornament the castle walls where you regale the country nobles.  One must use tact in the selection of this family gallery.  There must be no exaggeration.  Do not look too high.  Do not claim as a founder of your race a knight in armor hideously painted, upon wood, with his coat of arms in one corner of the panel.  Bear in mind the date of chivalry.  Be satisfied with the head of a dynasty whose gray beard hangs over a well-crimped ruff.  I saw a very good example of that kind the other day on the Place Royale.  A dog was just showing his disrespect for it as I passed.  You can obtain an ancestor like this in the outskirts of the city for fifteen