Schmucke had gone to bed. The three kites, drawn by the scent of a corpse, were masters of the field.
"Make no noise," said La Cibot whenever Magus went into ecstasies or explained the value of some work of art to Remonencq. The dying man slept on in the neighboring room, while greed in four different forms appraised the treasures that he must leave behind, and waited impatiently for him to die—a sight to wring the heart.
Three hours went by before they had finished the salon.
"On an average," said the grimy old Jew, "everything here is worth a thousand francs."
"Seventeen hundred thousand francs!" exclaimed Fraisier in bewilderment.
"Not to me," Magus answered promptly, and his eyes grew dull. "I would not give more than a hundred thousand francs myself for the collection. You cannot tell how long you may keep a thing on hand. . . . There are masterpieces that wait ten years for a buyer, and meanwhile the purchase money is doubled by compound interest. Still, I should pay cash."
"There is stained glass in the other room, as well as enamels and miniatures and gold and silver snuff-boxes," put in Remonencq.
"Can they be seen?" inquired Fraisier.
"I'll see if he is sound asleep," replied La Cibot. She made a sign, and the three birds of prey came in.
"There are masterpieces yonder!" said Magus, indicating the salon, every bristle of his white beard twitching as he spoke. "But the riches are here! And what riches! Kings have nothing more glorious in royal treasuries."