in it. Monsieur Linders' capital was very small; his francs
and credit both were soon exhausted, and began to find that
making-believe to paint pictures was hardly a paying business.
He tried to take portraits, attempted etching, gambled, and,
finally, being more in debt than he could well afford,
disappeared from the Paris world for a number of years, and
for a long space was known and heard of no more. It was indeed
affirmed in his circle of acquaintance that he had been seen
playing a fiddle at one of the cheap theatres; that he had
been recognized in the dress of a fiacre-driver, and in that
of a waiter at a Café Chantant: but these reports were idly
spread, and wanted confirmation. They might or might not have
been true. M. Linders never cared to talk much of those seven
or eight years in which he had effaced himself, as it were,
from society; but it may be imagined that he went through some
strange experiences in a life which was a struggle for bare
existence. Respectable ways of gaining a livelihood he ever
held in aversion; and it was not, therefore, to be expected
that a foolish and unprofitable pride would interfere to
prevent his using any means not absolutely criminal in order
to reach any desired end.

At length, however, he emerged from obscurity, and rose once
more to the surface of society; and one of his old
acquaintance, who encountered him at Homburg, returned
marvelling to Paris to relate that he had seen Adolphe Linders
winning fabulous sums at _trente-et-quarante_, that he was
decently clothed, had a magnificent suite of apartments at one
of the first hotels, and an English wife of wondrous beauty.
Monsieur Linders had, in fact, sown his wild oats, so to