The butler returned with several large square photographs, bowed, and gave them to his mistress.
“’Ere, you see,” she said, taking one of them and pointing with her finger, “zis vas taken here—in zis verree room at a great banquet vitch I have made for ze Américains in 1918. Zis,” she said proudly, and pointing with a plump white finger—“zis is me—c’est moi, La Marquise!” she cried in a jolly tone, and laughed with satisfaction as she pointed to her own beaming likeness at the head of a long table, sumptuously adorned with fine silver, china, linen, and a forest thicket of dark, crusty-looking bottles of old wine—obviously the relics of a memorable feast. “And zis,” La Marquise said more grimly, pointing again with her plump white finger, “zis is Major Patterson T. Jones—You know him, eh?” she said.
The boy looked at the picture for a moment and then handed it back to La Marquise, telling her that he did not recognize the face of Patterson T. Jones.
“Patterson T. Jones,” La Marquise answered, slowly, and with an air of grim deliberation, “is a gentleman I vant verree verree motch to see. Zat is ze man,” she said, “who took my picture—who told me he vould get for me, oh! soch huge soms of mon-nee if he could teck my picture to America,” she laughed ironically—“and so I let him teck ze picture, and I have heard nozzing from him since.”
“Was—was it your own picture, Marquise? A portrait of yourself?”
“Mais non, mon ami,” she said impatiently. “Dat’s vat I tell you—eet vas a picture, a photographie of Le Maréchal. Zere was only seex sotch pictures of Le Maréchal in existence—I say to Madame Foch vun time ven I am at Paris—I see ze picture in her house—I say—’Oh, my dear, zat so lovely picture of Le Maréchal—I must have vun for myself,’I say.’Ah,’she say,’I do not know, Mathilde—he do not like to give away zese pictures—I have only t’ree,’she say,’but vait. I see vat I can do—’Zen, vun night I go to dinnaire at zere house.’Mathilde,’he say,’for vat you vant my picture? I give it to you,’he say,’and zen all ze ozzer girls vill vant vun, too. I meck my vife jalouse, and zen zere is no peace. I have enough of var,’he say.’I am too old to start anozzer vit my vife!”’You give to me zat picture,’I say.’I am no young leddy in ze chorus,’I say,’to meck your vife jalouse. She vant you to give it to me, too.’'Bon,’he say.’Here it is, zen.’… And he give to me ze so beautiful photographie vit his name below written out to me:’To Mathilde, old comrade, fet’ful friend’—I bring ze picture beck ven I come beck to Mornaye, “ La Marquise continued,”
