“Not sell it? What the—what do you mean?” asked Mr. Smith, striving to mellow the gathering thunder on his brow.
“I do not sell,” said Aristide. “Listen, my dear friends!” He was in the seventh heaven of happiness—the principal man, the star, taking the centre of the stage. “I have an announcement to make to you. I have fallen desperately in love with mademoiselle.”
There was a general gasp. Mr. Smith looked at him, red-faced and open-mouthed. Miss Christabel blushed furiously and emitted a sound half between a laugh and a scream. Harry Ralston’s eyes flashed.
“My dear sir——” he began.
“Pardon,” said Aristide, disarming him with the merry splendour of his glance. “I do not wish to take mademoiselle from you. My love is hopeless! I know it. But it will feed me to my dying day. In return for the joy of this hopeless passion I will not sell you the picture—I give it to you as a wedding present.”
He stood, with the air of a hero, both arms extended towards the amazed pair of lovers.
“I give it to you,” said he. “It is mine. I have no wish but for your happiness. In my Château de Mireilles there are a hundred others.”
“This is madness!” said Mr. Smith, bursting with suppressed indignation, so that his bald head grew scarlet.
“My dear fellow!” said Mr. Harry Ralston. “It is unheard-of generosity on your part. But we can’t accept it.”
“Then,” said Aristide, advancing dramatically to the picture, “I take it under my arm, I put it in a hansom cab, and I go with it back to Languedoc.”