“Will you look them up? For I have not a single proof left of those you gave me, and on looking at myself in the glass this morning I found such changes between my face of to-day and that of three years ago, that I would like to study them. Certain ideas came to me on the expression of the physiognomy, that I wish to study, with something to support them.”
The search for the proofs made by an assistant led to no results; there were no proofs.
“Exactly; and for several days I have thought of making some,” the photographer said. “Because your day of glory will come, when your portrait will be in a distinguished place in the shop-windows and collections. Every one talks of your ‘concours’. Although I have abandoned medicine without the wish to return to it, I have not become indifferent to what concerns it, and I learned of your success. Which portrait shall we put in circulation? The old or the new?”
“The new.”
“Then let us arrange the pose.”
“Not to-day; it is only yesterday that I was shaved, fearing an attack of pelagre, and the skin covered by the beard has a crude whiteness that will accentuate the hardness of my physiognomy, which is really useless. We will wait until the air has tanned me a little, and then I will return, I promise you.”
“How many proofs do you want of your old portrait?”
“One will do.”
“I will send you a dozen.”
“Do not take the trouble; I will take them when I come to pose. But in the mean time, could you not show me the plate?”