"The divine Raphael would have bent his knee, and respectfully kissed the powerful hand of old Michael Angelo, his master and grandsire in the art," said Arnold mildly, and extending his hand to Pierre Raimond.
"You are right," replied the latter, responding warmly to this evidence of cordiality on the part of M. de Hansfeld; "I am an old ass, and as much excited as I was at twenty!"
Bertha came in at this moment. It would be difficult to paint the delightful expression of her countenance when she saw her father and Arnold thus clasping hands: her eyes were filled with joyful tears.
"Come to my rescue, my dear child," said Pierre Raimond; "I am beaten. My silly grey beard is obliged to bow itself before this venerable light-brown moustache. He remains as calm as reason itself, whilst I am as much excited as if I were on the wing."
"And what was the subject of this grave discussion?" inquired Bertha, smiling and looking alternately at Arnold and her father.
"Michael Angelo," said Pierre Raimond.
"Raphael," said Arnold.
"What, M. Arnold! you cannot yield to my father?"
"I should like to see him yield, indeed, without discussion! I am not desirous that he should yield, but that he should be convinced."
"As to that, M. Raimond, I have my doubts. Conviction does not flash across me; and Raphael——"