tood between
vaguely marked-out sites waiting to be built upon or heaped with the
debris of houses broken down, with blocks of freestone, old shutters
lying amid the desolation, mouldy butchers' blocks with broken hinges
hanging, an immense ossuary of a whole demolished region of the town.

Innumerable placards were stuck above the door, the latter being
decorated by a great frame of photographs white with dust before which
Jenkins paused for a moment as he passed. Had the famous doctor come so
far, then, simply for the purpose of having a photograph taken? It might
have been thought so, judging by the attention with which he stayed
to examine this display, the fifteen or twenty photographs which
represented the same family in different poses and actions and with
varying expressions; an old gentleman, with chin supported by a high
white neckcloth, and a leathern portfolio under his arm, surrounded by
a bevy of young girls with their hair in plait or in curls, and with
modest ornaments on their black frocks. Sometimes the old gentleman had
posed with but two of his daughters; or perhaps one of those young and
pretty profile figures stood out alone, the elbow resting upon a broken
column, the head bowed over a book in a natural and easy pose. But, in
short, it was always the same air with variations, and within the glass
frame there was no gentleman save the old gentleman with the white
neckcloth, nor other feminine figures that those of his numerous
daughters.

"Studios upstairs, on the fifth floor," said a line above the frame.
Jenkins sighed, measured with his eye the distance that separated the
ground from the little balcony up there in the clouds, then he decided
to enter. In the corridor he passed a white neckcloth and a majestic
leathern portfolio, evidently the old gentleman of the photographic
exhibition. Questioned, this individual replied that M. Maranne did
indeed live on the fifth floor. "But," he added, with an engaging smile,
"the stories are not lofty." Upon this encouragement the Irishman began
to ascend a narrow and quite new staircase with landings no larger than
a step, only one door on each floor, and badly lighted windows through
which could be seen a gloomy, ill-paved court-yard and other cage-like
staircases, all empty; one of those frightful modern houses, built
by the dozen by penniless speculators, and having as their worst
disadvantage thin partition walls which oblige all the inhabitants to