"If the catalogue of the Louvre is false, as it is, what must the catalogue of the Cherbourg museum be like?" he asked.
M. Des Boys shrugged his shoulders:
"You have lost my esteem."
And he affirmed the perfect authenticity of the Van Dycks, Van Eycks, Chardins, Poussins, Murillos, Jordaenses, Ribeiras, Fra Angelicos, Cranachs, Pourbuses and Leonardos which adorned the town hall.
"There's no Raphael," said M. Hervart, "and there ought to be a Velasquez and a Titian and a Correggio."
M. Des Boys replied sarcastically:
"There's a Natural History museum."
And with a wave of the hand, he disappeared round the corner of a street.
One would think everything in this dreary maritime city had been arranged to disguise the fact that the sea is there. The houses turn their backs on it, and a desert of stones and dust and wind lies between the shores and the town. To discover that Cherbourg is really a seaport, one must climb to the top of the Roule rock. M. Hervart had a desire to scale this pinnacle.
"It's a waste of time," said Rose; "let's go up the tower in the Liais gardens."