re
primarily artists, who, while wandering over France, knapsack
on back, discovered that their note-books also made them
writers. In 1850 they entered upon a literary partnership
which only finished with the death of the younger brother on
June 20, 1870. Their earliest literary endeavours consisted of
a series of historical studies dealing with the France of the
second half of the eighteenth century. It was not until 1860,
with the publication of their first novel, "Les Hommes de
Lettres," that they discovered their true bent lay in fiction.
"Renee Mauperin," which is, perhaps, the best known of their
books, was published in 1864. As a psychological analysis of
contemporaneous youth, it is probably without its equal in
French fiction. "The plot of the story," wrote Edmond de
Goncourt, "is secondary. The authors have rather preferred to
paint the modern young woman as she is: the product of the
artistic and masculine system of education in force during the
last thirty years. We have also attempted to portray the
modern young college man influenced by the republican ideas of
the time since Louis Philippe." Edmond de Goncourt died on
July 16, 1896.

_I.--A Wayward Girl_

"Yes, I love riding and hunting. I never miss a meet. The wind blowing
through one's hair, the hounds, the horns, the trees flying past you--it
is intoxicating! In those moments I feel brave. Life has few other
pleasures for a well-brought-up girl like me. Everything is shocking! I
dance, yes ... but do you think I am allowed to talk to my partner? Yes,
no, no, yes--that's all! That's proper. And I am allowed to read if the
books and articles are proper. I paint in oils, and that shocks my
family; a young lady must not go beyond copying roses in water-colours.
Isn't the current strong here?"

Renee Mauperin and young Reverchon, her parent's guest, were swimming in
the Seine.

"How beautiful!" exclaimed the girl, as she noticed the evening sun
gilding the river and the banks where country and suburb merged into
each other.

"You are an artist by nature, mademoiselle."

"Ouf!" she exclaimed with a comic intonation.

A boat approached.

"Well, Renee, how is the water?" asked one of the rowers.

"Splendid, thanks, Denoisel," she replied, as she mounted the steps
lowered for her.

"I was almost getting nervous for you. And Reverchon? Ah, there