The Crossing [176]
you will not part with that!'' she exclaimed.
``Why not?'' demanded the young man, indifferently. ``It was painted by Boze, the back is solid gold, and the Jew in the Rue Toulouse will give me four hundred livres for it to-morrow morning.''
There followed immediately such a chorus of questions, exclamations, and shrill protests from Madame Bouvet, that I (being such a laborious French scholar) could distinguish but little of what they said. I looked in wonderment at the gesticulating figures grouped against the light, Madame imploring, the youthful profile of the newcomer marked with a cynical and scornful refusal. More than once I was for rising out of my chair to go over and see for myself what the object was, and then, suddenly, I perceived Madame Bouvet coming towards me in evident agitation. She sank into the chair beside me.
``If I had four hundred livres,'' she said, ``if I had four hundred livres!''
``And what then?'' I asked.
``Monsieur,'' she said, ``a terrible thing has happened. Auguste de Saint-Gre--''
``Auguste de Saint-Gre!'' I exclaimed.
``He is the son of that Monsieur de Saint-Gre of whom we spoke,'' she answered, ``a wild lad, a spendthrift, a gambler, if you like. And yet he is a Saint-Gre, Monsieur, and I cannot refuse him. It is the miniature of Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre, the daughter of the Marquis, sent to Mamselle 'Toinette, his sister, from France. How he has obtained it I know not.''
``Ah!'' I exclaimed sharply, the explanation of the scene of which I had been a witness coming to me swiftly. The rascal had wrenched it from her in the gallery and fled.
``Monsieur,'' continued Madame, too excited to notice my interruption, ``if I had four hundred livres I would buy it of him, and Monsieur de Saint-Gre pere would willingly pay it back in the morning.''
I reflected. I had a letter in my pocket to Monsieur de Saint-Gre, the sum was not large, and the act of Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gre in every light was detestable. A rising anger decided me, and I took a wallet from my pocket.
``I will buy the miniature, Madame,'' I said.
She looked at me in astonishment.
``God bless you, Monsieur,'' she cried; ``if you could see Mamselle 'Toinette you would pay twice the sum. The whole town loves her. Monsieur Auguste, Monsieur Auguste!'' she shouted, ``here is a gentleman who will buy your miniature.''
The six young men stopped talking and stared at me With one accord. Madame arose, and I followed her down the room towards them, and, had it not been for my indignation, I should have felt sufficiently ridiculous. Young Monsieur de Saint-Gre came forward with the good-natured, easy insolence to which he had been born, and looked me over.
``Monsieur is an American,'' he said.
``I understand that you have offered this miniature for four hundred livres,'' I said.
``It is the Jew's price,'' he answered; ``mais pardieu, what will you?'' he added with a shrug, ``I must have the money. Regardez, Monsieur, you have a bargain. Here is Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre, daughter of my lord the Marquis of whom I have the honor to be a cousin,'' and he made a bow. ``It is by the famous court painter, Joseph Boze, and Mademoiselle de Saint-Gre herself is a favorite of her Majesty.'' He held the portrait close to the candle and regarded it critically. ``Mademoiselle Helene Victoire Marie de Saint-Gre, painted in a costume of Henry the Second's time, with a ruff, you notice, which she wore at a ball given by his Highness the Prince of Conde at Chantilly. A trifle haughty, if you like, Monsieur, but I venture to say you will be hopelessly in love with her within the hour.''
At this there was a general titter from the young gentlemen at the table.
``All of which is neither here nor there, Monsieur,'' I answered sharply. ``The question is purely a commercial one, and has nothing to do with the lady's character or position.''
``It is well said, Monsieur,'' Madame Bouvet put in.
Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gre shrugged his slim shoulders and laid
``Why not?'' demanded the young man, indifferently. ``It was painted by Boze, the back is solid gold, and the Jew in the Rue Toulouse will give me four hundred livres for it to-morrow morning.''
There followed immediately such a chorus of questions, exclamations, and shrill protests from Madame Bouvet, that I (being such a laborious French scholar) could distinguish but little of what they said. I looked in wonderment at the gesticulating figures grouped against the light, Madame imploring, the youthful profile of the newcomer marked with a cynical and scornful refusal. More than once I was for rising out of my chair to go over and see for myself what the object was, and then, suddenly, I perceived Madame Bouvet coming towards me in evident agitation. She sank into the chair beside me.
``If I had four hundred livres,'' she said, ``if I had four hundred livres!''
``And what then?'' I asked.
``Monsieur,'' she said, ``a terrible thing has happened. Auguste de Saint-Gre--''
``Auguste de Saint-Gre!'' I exclaimed.
``He is the son of that Monsieur de Saint-Gre of whom we spoke,'' she answered, ``a wild lad, a spendthrift, a gambler, if you like. And yet he is a Saint-Gre, Monsieur, and I cannot refuse him. It is the miniature of Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre, the daughter of the Marquis, sent to Mamselle 'Toinette, his sister, from France. How he has obtained it I know not.''
``Ah!'' I exclaimed sharply, the explanation of the scene of which I had been a witness coming to me swiftly. The rascal had wrenched it from her in the gallery and fled.
``Monsieur,'' continued Madame, too excited to notice my interruption, ``if I had four hundred livres I would buy it of him, and Monsieur de Saint-Gre pere would willingly pay it back in the morning.''
I reflected. I had a letter in my pocket to Monsieur de Saint-Gre, the sum was not large, and the act of Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gre in every light was detestable. A rising anger decided me, and I took a wallet from my pocket.
``I will buy the miniature, Madame,'' I said.
She looked at me in astonishment.
``God bless you, Monsieur,'' she cried; ``if you could see Mamselle 'Toinette you would pay twice the sum. The whole town loves her. Monsieur Auguste, Monsieur Auguste!'' she shouted, ``here is a gentleman who will buy your miniature.''
The six young men stopped talking and stared at me With one accord. Madame arose, and I followed her down the room towards them, and, had it not been for my indignation, I should have felt sufficiently ridiculous. Young Monsieur de Saint-Gre came forward with the good-natured, easy insolence to which he had been born, and looked me over.
``Monsieur is an American,'' he said.
``I understand that you have offered this miniature for four hundred livres,'' I said.
``It is the Jew's price,'' he answered; ``mais pardieu, what will you?'' he added with a shrug, ``I must have the money. Regardez, Monsieur, you have a bargain. Here is Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre, daughter of my lord the Marquis of whom I have the honor to be a cousin,'' and he made a bow. ``It is by the famous court painter, Joseph Boze, and Mademoiselle de Saint-Gre herself is a favorite of her Majesty.'' He held the portrait close to the candle and regarded it critically. ``Mademoiselle Helene Victoire Marie de Saint-Gre, painted in a costume of Henry the Second's time, with a ruff, you notice, which she wore at a ball given by his Highness the Prince of Conde at Chantilly. A trifle haughty, if you like, Monsieur, but I venture to say you will be hopelessly in love with her within the hour.''
At this there was a general titter from the young gentlemen at the table.
``All of which is neither here nor there, Monsieur,'' I answered sharply. ``The question is purely a commercial one, and has nothing to do with the lady's character or position.''
``It is well said, Monsieur,'' Madame Bouvet put in.
Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gre shrugged his slim shoulders and laid