"That!" cried the woman, very indignant. "That? But look at this material, this background. It is famous, I tell you—I took it to an expert. At the public sale it might, perhaps, bring a thousand francs. My idea is that it is the picture of some renowned person. An actor or a former Minister. In fact, some historic person."
"But one must take one's chance," Bernardet replied in a jeering tone. "But one hundred francs is one hundred francs. Too much for me. Who sold you the painting?"
The woman went around behind the counter and opened a drawer, from which she took a note book, in which she kept a daily record of her sales. She turned over the leaves.
"November 12, a small oval painting bought"—She readjusted her spectacles as if to better decipher the name.
"I did not write the name myself; the man wrote it himself." She spelled out:
"Charles—Charles Breton—Rue de la Condamine, 16"——
"Charles Breton," Bernardet repeated; "who is this Charles Breton? I would like to know if he painted this portrait, which seems like a family portrait and has come to sell it"——
"You know," interrupted the woman, "that that often happens. It is business. One buys or one sells all in good time."
"And this Breton; how old was he?"
"Oh, young. About thirty years old. Very good looking. Dark, with a full beard."