"Thank you," Calixte said, simply, as he opened a huge portfolio.
From it he drew his manuscript, where could be read, on the first page, the author's name, Calixte Heliot, in a very beautiful flowing handwriting. He was proud of his Christian name. Then he brought out a small case and slowly untied its strings.
"Here is a masterpiece for you. Eh! What does Van Baël think of it?"
The art critic took the little yellow paper, a delicate etching, and pronounced:
"Good, very good, a little dark, too deeply bitten. From afar," and he stretched out his hand, "from afar it turns to aquatint."
"By whom is it? There is an S and an M interlaced at the left-hand corner."
"S M, S M," repeated Van Baël. "I cannot guess. It is a portrait. I see more letters after the monogram. Strange, strange ... It reads: S. M. to S. M. A laconic dedication of the author to himself, or else a strange coincidence of initials."
Nobody, not even Entragues who studied it intently, could find the key to the monogram.
Hubert and Calixte were old friends who owed each other valuable services. Calixte observed Hubert's insistance: a fatidical attraction, rather than curiosity, fascinated his eyes, keeping them glued to the engraving.
"You can have it if you wish, my dear Entragues."