“Yes, yes,” answered the invalid, thanking her by a glance.
La Cibot shut the bedroom door behind her, and Pons’ suspicions awoke again at once.
She found Magus standing motionless before the four pictures. His immobility, his admiration, can only be understood by other souls open to ideal beauty, to the ineffable joy of beholding art made perfect; such as these can stand for whole hours before the Antiope—Correggio’s masterpiece—before Leonardo’s Gioconda, Titian’s Mistress, Andrea del Sarto’s Holy Family, Domenichino’s Children Among the Flowers, Raphael’s little cameo, or his Portrait of an Old Man—Art’s greatest masterpieces.
“Be quick and go, and make no noise,” said La Cibot.
The Jew walked slowly backwards, giving the pictures such a farewell gaze as a lover gives his love. Outside on the landing, La Cibot tapped his bony arm. His rapt contemplations had put an idea into her head.
“Make it four thousand francs for each picture,” said she, “or I do nothing.”
“I am so poor!...” began Magus. “I want the pictures simply for their own sake, simply and solely for the love of art, my dear lady.”
“I can understand that love, sonny, you are so dried up. But if you do not promise me sixteen thousand francs now, before Remonencq here, I shall want twenty to-morrow.”
“Sixteen; I promise,” returned the Jew, frightened by the woman’s rapacity.
La Cibot turned to Remonencq.