“Four thousand, eighty!” and, immediately over-bid by the little gentleman in the pince-nez, rushed frantically from the room. Another bid in a voice without identity.
“Five thousand miserable little francs!” thundered Ventrillon, scornfully. “And the rate of exchange, what it is? Bon dieu! It is an insult to Mademoiselle Belletaille!”
But the sum was already beyond even reason of unreason; it was as if a cold wind had blown into the room. Ventrillon became sensitive to the situation.
“Five thousand, five hundred,” suddenly whispered the little gentleman in the pince-nez.
“Five thousand, five hundred,” shouted Ventrillon, quickly. “Going, going—-” For a moment there was dead silence.
“O Maman,” excitedly cried the eldest daughter of the lady in pearls, “is it too late?”
“Chut!” hissed the mother, pinching her daughter’s arm until she squealed.
“Gone,” thundered Ventrillon, with finality—“gone to the dignified monsieur in the pince-nez.”
That little man advanced conspicuously to take possession. The crowd cheered wildly. Volland made his way in through the uproar.
“Of course, my friend,” he said genially, rubbing his hands before the chair of Ventrillon, “you will not forget my commission. A hat is not art, to be sure, but I am accustomed to 10 per cent. on sales made in my galleries.”