The Comte de Gesvres had appeared upon the scene and was cocking his revolver. Beautrelet burst out laughing:
“That’s right, Monsieur le Comte, blaze away!—Take a shot at them, as if you were at a fair!—Wait a bit—this chap carrying his head in his hands—”
St. John the Baptist fell, shattered to pieces.
“Oh!” shouted the count, pointing his revolver. “You young vandal!—Those masterpieces!”
“Sham, Monsieur le Comte!”
“What? What’s that?” roared M. Filleul, wresting the Comte de Gesvres’s weapon from him.
“Sham!” repeated Beautrelet. “Paper-pulp and plaster!”
“Oh, nonsense! It can’t be true!”
“Hollow plaster, I tell you! Nothing at all!”
The count stooped and picked up a sliver of a statuette.