The Opelousas courier., 1886-04-24
HER CHILD'S PICTURE.

In a secluded village in Brittany there
lived some years ago an honest peasant
woman, known as ia Eeuve Yvonne."
She happened one day to hear some of
her neighbors speaking of the wonderful
powersfof photography.
GWonderful indeedr she exclaimed.
"Where arc the best of these marvellous
pictures to be Scent"
I'm Paris. Why do you ask, Mere
Yvonne 2"
Never mind. have an idea. You
will see"
The widows mind was strong and sim
pie; it did not take long to make up"
Without staying to deliberate, she
packed up Il few necessaries, and one fine
morning, rich with the savings of many
industrious years, she set off alone2 for
Paris.
She arrived in the great capital, with
her scarlet pe~tticoat, her white neeker-
chief, her large cap and her honest face.
Directly she arrived she inquired:
who is the best photographer"
In reply she was furnished with the
address of q clever artist, to whose studio
she at once fastened.
Everybody says, monsieur" she be-
gan, that your likenesses of children
are admirable
Everybody is very kind replied the
photographer. eff I have attained any
unusual skill it is probably because /
have worked con aDsore. / love the little
rogues. Ihave, moreover, plenty of little
subjects of my own to practice upon.
See herei"
He opened a door, called, and the next
moment half q dozen merry children, of
ages varying from three to twelve, rushed
into the room and crowded round his
knees.
1T is a child, I presume, madame,
whose portrait you wish takenan
Eyes, monsieur, it is a child. He will
be neither petulant nor rebcllious, the
poor little love. Good reason why; he is
dead.n
At these startling words the photogra-
pher felt distressed. He telt he must
have bitterly renewed the mothers grief
il exhibiting to her these fair children
and caressing them before her eyes.
Go and play on the balcony he
whispered, hastily; and as they passed
through the door he kissed them tender
~, but softly, lest his visitor should hsar.
Then he said, with great gentleness:
Gas the little child Of whom you speak
Is dead, it il. I conclude, a posthumous
portrait you wish to have taken-the pic
ture of the little creature whose innocent
soul has fed, lying in his white bed, a
cross in his hands, a cr9wn Of white
roses on his colorless forehead. I shall
be happy if you will give me your adj
dress, to proceed as soon as possible to
yonr residence
Thank you monsieur, Z she said. my
child has been dead six years.
ssYou have then already a portrait of
your sona'' he said, after a pause-tsa
painting, perhaps, that you wish photo
graphedia
"a painting Of him-I" exclaimed
Dame Yvonne. Mon Dieu, 10. It is
the hope Of obtaining one that has induc-
ed me to make this long journey
What, madamel And do you mag
inc that without the original, without
another portrait, without any sort Of in
dication or guide, | can produce . like
rsss of i child dead six years ago2'
What, monsieurln cried Dame
Yvonne, in her turn; land do you mean
to say it is impossiblea People vaunt on
every side the prodigies, the miracles Of
photography. Cannot the art that ae-
cOmpIiahes these marvels reproduce q
vestige, a shadow Of my SOM Cannot it
give VI so imperfect q resemblance Of
her child to 4 desolate mother, who-e
Sobs broke the sentence. Dame Yvonne
could say no more.
The kind-hearted photographer did
not wish the simple peasant to return to
her Breton village disappointed, 80 be re-
Aected awhile.
Madame, be said, thoughtfuIly,
nothing Is absolutely impossible
All she cried, quickly, then you
can Give nc 4 portrait Of my darlinga,
Who knowsan he said. 81 win try At
any rate.
You have preserved the clothes Of the
child you have losta'' he asked.
PreasrTs themap she echoed; 81 have
fhs Ysry little garments still u good IS
new, ii which Idressed him tile last
time Re ran chasing the butterflies ii the.
green fields
'send them NJ nse directly saia the
srtisk