“Oh! he is a nobody.”
“In business there is no such thing as a nobody.”
“Oh, he is employed at the theatre,” said she; “his name is Topinard.”
“Good, Mme. Sauvage! Go on like this, and you shall have your tobacconist’s shop.”
And Fraisier resumed his conversation with Mme. Cibot.
“So I say, my dear client, that you have not played openly and above-board with me, and that one is not bound in any way to a partner who cheats.”
“And how have I cheated you?” asked La Cibot, hands on hips. “Do you think that you will frighten me with your sour looks and your frosty airs? You look about for bad reasons for breaking your promises, and you call yourself an honest man! Do you know what you are? You are a blackguard! Yes! yes! scratch your arm; but just pocket that—”
“No words, and keep your temper, dearie. Listen to me. You have been feathering your nest.... I found this catalogue this morning while we were getting ready for the funeral; it is all in M. Pons’ handwriting, and made out in duplicate. And as it chanced, my eyes fell on this—”
And opening the catalogue, he read:
“No. 7. Magnificent portrait painted on marble, by Sebastian del
Piombo, in 1546. Sold by a family who had it removed from Terni
Cathedral. The picture, which represents a Knight-Templar kneeling
in prayer, used to hang above a tomb of the Rossi family with a
companion portrait of a Bishop, afterwards purchased by an
Englishman. The portrait might be attributed to Raphael, but for
the date. This example is, to my mind, superior to the portrait of
Baccio Bandinelli in the Musee; the latter is a little hard, while
the Templar, being painted upon ‘lavagna,’ or slate, has preserved
its freshness of coloring.”