THE DUPLICATE REMBRANDT.


The day began well. The breakfast rolls were crisper than usual, the
butter was sweeter, and never had Diane's slender white hands poured out
more delicious coffee. Jack Clare was in the highest spirits as he
embraced his wife and sallied forth into the Boulevard St. Germain, with
a flat, square parcel wrapped in brown paper under his arm. From the
window of the entresol Diane waved a coquettish farewell.

"Remember, in an hour," she called down to him. "I shall be ready by
then, Jack, and waiting. We will lunch at Bignon's--"

"And drive in the Bois, and wind up with a jolly evening," he
interrupted, throwing a kiss. "I will hasten back, dear one. Be sure
that you put on your prettiest frock, and the jacket with the ermine
trimming."

It was a clear and frosty January morning, in the year 1892, and the
streets of Paris were dry and glistening. There was intoxication in the
very air, and Jack felt thoroughly in harmony with the fine weather.
What mattered it that he had but a few francs in his pocket--that the
quarterly remittance from his mother, who dreaded the Channel passage
and was devoted to her foggy London, would not be due for a fortnight?
The parcel under his arm meant, without doubt, a check for a nice sum.
He and Diane would spend it merrily, and until the morrow at least his
fellow-workers at Julian's Academy would miss him from his accustomed
place.