“Oh, I remember him because he laughed and seemed very happy, and gave me two stivers to get him a bag to put them in.”
“Can you tell anything about him? Do you know his name, little Marvedie—little pigeon pie Marvedie?” gasps Antony, attempting a grimace, with a face that is like a death mask.
“No, but he was ugly and had nasty eyes, eyes that looked like the codfish they sell in the market.”
“How many pigeons did this man take away? Did you count them, little Marvedie—little pigeon pie Marvedie?” and the painter achieves a ghastly chuckle.
“Yes, there were six, with bunches on their beaks and eyes that looked back and front. The kind whose necks you wring when you give me pigeon pie,” says the little child.
“And where was your brother?” The painter’s voice is low and stern. [[67]]
“Oh, I was out trying to sell one of your pictures,” says Achille. “At least I think I was. That’s what I’ve been trying to do ever since you went away, but they’re all here yet. The Duke’s tenth penny is ruining everybody. No body has any money to spare, at least not for works of art.”
“Very well,” sighs Antony, “here’s a florin. Yes, get the pigeons!” he laughs dismally. “We’ll have the pigeon pie.”
The two boys run away. The painter’s face is white as his own chalk, and he falters. “At last it has come. Some one has my secret.”
“What secret” mutters Guy, half guessing.