As I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment for admiration, and clapped me on the shoulder.
“You are dazzled,” said he merrily; “you did not expect such a treasure! What do you say to the bargain I have made?”
“Pardon me,” replied I, gravely; “but I think you might have done better.”
M. Antoine raised his head.
“How!” cried he; “do you take me for a man likely to be deceived about the merit or value of a painting?”
“I neither doubt your taste nor your skill; but I cannot help thinking that, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might have had—”
“What then?”
“The family itself, sir.”
The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of contempt. In his eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable of understanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them. He got up without answering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in its hiding-place behind the prints.
It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, and went away.