“Magnificent!” he cried. “Oh! what painting! that fellow didn’t spoil his canvas. Dear, dear! better and better, as it is at Nicolet’s—”
“There are seven or eight very large ones up in the garret, which were kept on account of the frames,” said Gilet.
“Let me see them!” cried the artist; and Max took him upstairs.
Joseph came down wildly enthusiastic. Max whispered a word to the Rabouilleuse, who took the old man into the embrasure of a window, where Joseph heard her say in a low voice, but still so that he could hear the words:—
“Your nephew is a painter; you don’t care for those pictures; be kind, and give them to him.”
“It seems,” said Jean-Jacques, leaning on Flore’s arm to reach the place were Joseph was standing in ecstasy before an Albano, “—it seems that you are a painter—”
“Only a ‘rapin,’” said Joseph.
“What may that be?” asked Flore.
“A beginner,” replied Joseph.
“Well,” continued Jean-Jacques, “if these pictures can be of any use to you in your business, I give them to you,—but without the frames. Oh! the frames are gilt, and besides, they are very funny; I will put—”