I took good care not to criticize his etymology; but I wished in my turn to give evidence of penetration, and said to him:
“Stop a moment, sir, Myron consecrated something; but I do not at all see that it was this statue.”
“How so?” he exclaimed. “Was not Myron a famous Greek sculptor? His talent must have been perpetuated in his family: it must have been one of his descendants who made this statue. Nothing is more certain.”
“But,” I replied, “I see a little hole in the arm. In my opinion, it served to fasten something, a bracelet, for instance, which this Myron gave to Venus as an expiatory offering. Myron was an unhappy lover. Venus was angry with him; he appeased her by consecrating a golden bracelet to her. Note that fecit is very often used for consecravit. They are synonymous terms. I could show you more than one example, if I had Gruter, or even Orellius at hand. It is natural that a lover should see Venus in a dream, that he should imagine that she commands him to give a golden bracelet to her statue. Myron consecrated a bracelet to her.... Then the barbarians, or even some sacrilegious robber....”
“Ah, it is easy to see that you have written novels!” exclaimed my host, as he lent me a hand to descend. “No, sir; it is a work of the school of Myron. Only look at the workmanship, and you’ll agree.”
Having made it an invariable rule never to give a point-blank contradiction to obstinate antiquaries, I bowed my head with an air of conviction and said:
“It is an admirable piece.”
“Good gracious!” exclaimed M. de Peyrehorade. “Another piece of vandalism! Some one must have been throwing stones at my statue!”
He had just observed a white mark a little above the breast of the Venus. I noticed a similar trace on the fingers of the right hand, which, I supposed at the time, the stone had touched in its passage, or perhaps even a fragment had been knocked off it by the shock, and had rebounded on to the hand. I related to my host the insult, of which I had been a witness, and the prompt punishment which had followed it. He laughed heartily at the story, and, comparing the appprentice to Diomede, wished that, like the Greek hero, he might see all his companions turned into white birds.
The breakfast bell interrupted this classical conversation, and, as on the previous evening, I was obliged to eat enough for four. Then M. de Peyrehorade’s farmers came; and, while he gave audience to them, his son took me to see a barouche which he had bought at Toulouse for his bride, and which I, of course, admired. Next I went into the stable with him, where he kept me for half an hour boasting about his horses, telling me their pedigrees, and detailing the prizes that they had won at the county races. At last he came to tell me about his future wife, having been led up to her by a grey mare which he intended for her.