he vases on the mantel, the two great lamps,
the work-table, the armchairs arranged in a circle, seemed to share
the illusion, to shine brighter as if rejuvenated by that unusual
throng.

"So your play is finished?"

"Finished, Monsieur Joyeuse, and I mean to read it to you one of these
days."

"Oh! yes, Monsieur Andre. Oh! yes," said all the girls in chorus.

Their neighbor wrote for the stage and no one of them entertained a
doubt of his success. Photography held out less promise of profit, you
know. Customers were very rare, the passers-by disinclined to patronize
him. To keep his hand in and get his new apparatus into working order,
Monsieur Andre was taking his friends again every Sunday, the family
lending themselves for his experiments with unequalled good-humor, for
the prosperity of that inchoate, suburban industry was a matter of
pride to them all, arousing, even in the girls, that touching sentiment
of fraternity which presses the humblest destinies together as closely
as sparrows on the edge of a roof. But Andre Maranne, with the
inexhaustible resources of his high forehead, stored with illusions,
explained without bitterness the indifference of the public. Either the
weather was unfavorable or else every one complained of the wretched
condition of business, and he ended always with the same consoling
refrain: "Wait until _Revolte_ has been acted!" _Revolte_ was the title
of his play.

"It's a surprising thing," said the fourth of the Joyeuse girls, a
child of twelve with her hair in a pigtail, "it's a surprising thing
that you do so little business with such a splendid balcony!"

"And then there's a great deal of passing through the quarter," added
Elise confidently. Grandmamma smilingly reminded her that there was
even more on Boulevard des Italiens.

"Ah! if it were Boulevard des Italiens--" said M. Joyeuse dreamily,
and away he went on his chimera, which was suddenly brought to a
stand-still by a gesture and these words, uttered in a piteous tone:
"closed because of failure." In an instant the terrible _Imaginaire_
had installed his friend in a splendid apartment on the boulevard,
where he earned an enormous amount of money, increasing his expenses
at the same time so disproportionately, that a loud "_pouf_" swallowed
up photographer and photography in a few months. They laughed heartily
when he gave that explanation; but they all agreed that Rue
Saint-Ferdinand, although less showy, was much mo