"What is the price of that?"
"Fifteen hundred francs," replied the man, sending a glance of intelligence to a young man seated on a stool in the corner.
The young man himself gazed in a stupefaction at Monsieur Hulot's living masterpiece. Hortense, forewarned, at once identified him as the artist, from the color that flushed a face pale with endurance; she saw the spark lighted up in his gray eyes by her question; she looked on the thin, drawn features, like those of a monk consumed by asceticism; she loved the red, well-formed mouth, the delicate chin, and the Pole's silky chestnut hair.
"If it were twelve hundred," said she, "I would beg you to send it to me."
"It is antique, mademoiselle," the dealer remarked, thinking, like all his fraternity, that, having uttered this ne plus ultra of bric-a-brac, there was no more to be said.
"Excuse me, monsieur," she replied very quietly, "it was made this year; I came expressly to beg you, if my price is accepted, to send the artist to see us, as it might be possible to procure him some important commissions."
"And if he is to have the twelve hundred francs, what am I to get? I am the dealer," said the man, with candid good-humor.
"To be sure!" replied the girl, with a slight curl of disdain.
"Oh! mademoiselle, take it; I will make terms with the dealer," cried the Livonian, beside himself.
Fascinated by Hortense's wonderful beauty and the love of art she displayed, he added: