“Bah! with what?” said the other. “She’s made of copper, and it’s so hard that Étienne broke his file, trying to file it. It’s copper of the heathen times, and it’s harder than I don’t know what.”
“If I had my cold-chisel”—it seemed that he was a locksmith’s apprentice—“I’d soon dig out her big white eyes, as easy as I’d take an almond out of its shell. They’d make more than a hundred sous in silver.”
They walked away a few steps.
“I must bid the idol good-night,” said the taller of the two, suddenly stopping again.
He stooped, and, I suppose, picked up a stone. I saw him raise his arm and throw something, and instantly there was a ringing blow on the bronze. At the same moment the apprentice put his hand to his head, with a sharp cry of pain.
“She threw it back at me!” he exclaimed.
And my two rascals fled at the top of their speed. It was evident that the stone had rebounded from the metal, and had punished the fellow for his affront to the goddess.
I closed my window, laughing heartily.
“Still another vandal chastised by Venus!” I thought. “May all the destroyers of our ancient monuments have their heads broken thus!”
And with that charitable prayer, I fell asleep.