Père Guinardon began to laugh.
"My dear Sariette, you remind me of the Chevalier des Grieux when he learns that his darling mistress is to be transported to the Mississippi. 'My dear mistress going to the Mississippi!' says he."
"No! no!" answered Sariette, very pale, "this book shall not go to America. It shall return, as it ought, to the d'Esparvieu library. Let me have it, Guinardon."
The antiquary made a second attempt to put an end to an interview that now looked as if it might take an ugly turn.
"My good Sariette, you haven't told me what you think of my Greco. You never so much as glanced at it. It is an admirable piece of work all the same."
And Guinardon, putting the picture in a good light, went on:
"Now just look at Saint Francis here, the poor man of the Lord, the brother of Jesus. See how his fuliginous body rises heavenward like the smoke from an agreeable sacrifice, like the sacrifice of Abel."
"Give me the book, Guinardon," said Sariette, without turning his head; "give me the book."
The blood suddenly flew to Père Guinardon's head.
"That's enough of it," he shouted, as red as a turkey-cock, the veins standing out on his forehead.