“Monsieur,” she said, “a terrible thing has happened. Auguste de Saint-Gré—”
“Auguste de Saint-Gré!” I exclaimed.
“He is the son of that Monsieur de Saint-Gré of whom we spoke,” she answered, “a wild lad, a spendthrift, a gambler, if you like. And yet he is a Saint-Gré, Monsieur, and I cannot refuse him. It is the miniature of Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré, the daughter of the Marquis, sent to Mamselle 'Toinette, his sister, from France. How he has obtained it I know not.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed sharply, the explanation of the scene of which I had been a witness coming to me swiftly. The rascal had wrenched it from her in the gallery and fled.
“Monsieur,” continued Madame, too excited to notice my interruption, “if I had four hundred livres I would buy it of him, and Monsieur de Saint-Gré père would willingly pay it back in the morning.”
I reflected. I had a letter in my pocket to Monsieur de Saint-Gré, the sum was not large, and the act of Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gré in every light was detestable. A rising anger decided me, and I took a wallet from my pocket.
“I will buy the miniature, Madame,” I said.
She looked at me in astonishment.
“God bless you, Monsieur,” she cried; “if you could see Mamselle 'Toinette you would pay twice the sum. The whole town loves her. Monsieur Auguste, Monsieur Auguste!” she shouted, “here is a gentleman who will buy your miniature.”
The six young men stopped talking and stared at me with one accord. Madame arose, and I followed her down the room towards them, and, had it not been for my indignation, I should have felt sufficiently ridiculous. Young Monsieur de Saint-Gré came forward with the good-natured, easy insolence to which he had been born, and looked me over.