"If you wish to make a generous return for a trifling service—give me this picture."
His eyes were riveted upon a medallion displaying the face of a lady of patrician beauty, which, with other miniatures, was set in a framing of diminutive chrysolites, stones much used during the eighteenth century and which imitate in a marvelous manner the brilliancy of diamonds. The lady's hair rose in curls above a splendid forehead, enclosed her cheeks and fell upon her shoulders. Roses and feathers surmounted the graceful coiffure and white laces opened at the neck to reveal a perfect throat.
"Which of the pictures?"
"Amélie's," said René.
Naundorff gravely removed the image and pressed it reverently to his lips. Then he handed it to de Brezé, saying in a broken voice:
"'Tis not Amélie, but my unhappy, my adored mother."
As René, through delicacy, made a movement of refusal, the mechanic said:
"To only the Marquis de Brezé would I give this medallion. Farewell, loved image, that has so often rested on my heart. I am almost glad to part with you, for who knows how soon my house will for the hundredth time be rifled and I deprived of the last evidences of my personality, my dearest memories, my real life. I am more tranquil when other hands than mine guard my treasures. Watch over them, René, and over all that I have confided to your keeping. This face will bring Amélie to your eyes, for the resemblance is so remarkable, in spite of the difference in dress, that I do not wonder at your mistake."
On reaching the Hotel Douglas, René's first act was to take the miniature from his breast and cover it with kisses. Then, as he gazed upon the face of the dame of 1780, he murmured:
"How, in heaven's name, have I taken this face for Amélie! Why 'tis the wretched queen, Marie Antoinette, whom it resembles amazingly."