I expected—it goes without saying, considering his mysterious manner—something extraordinary, and, from the point of view of our companion, I was not far wrong.
“Perhaps!” he said abruptly, “you would like to look at my collection.”
While he pronounced these two words, “my collection,” an air of self-respect shone on his face. Since then I have recalled this experience and have understood it. But I was not at all affected by it then, and I kept wondering what kind of queer character this was. He seemed to me a little out of his mind. I answered him, therefore, without disturbing myself:
“Thank you, sir. I have just seen the Louvre; and I think that is a very pretty col—”
Rachel Boyer broke into my sentence smiling, but with a look as if she were somewhat scandalised. Then she assured the old man that we both were appreciative in the highest degree of the marked favour that he had shown us.
Thereupon we made an appointment, and the little old man left us.
“Why does he want me to see his collection,” I asked Rachel Boyer.
“Why?” she replied. “For no other reason undoubtedly than that he particularly admires you. For, you see, his collection is the most complete of its kind, and in his eyes sacred. I cannot tell you how surprised I was to hear him invite you. Only very rarely, as a matter of fact, does he permit anyone to look at his masterpieces.”
“Really! But who is this gentleman? What does he do?”
“What! You don’t know him! Yet I introduced him to you.”