“Monsieur is an American,” he said.
“I understand that you have offered this miniature for four hundred livres,” I said.
“It is the Jew's price,” he answered; “mais pardieu, what will you?” he added with a shrug, “I must have the money. Regardez, Monsieur, you have a bargain. Here is Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré, daughter of my lord the Marquis of whom I have the honor to be a cousin,” and he made a bow. “It is by the famous court painter, Joseph Boze, and Mademoiselle de Saint-Gré herself is a favorite of her Majesty.” He held the portrait close to the candle and regarded it critically. “Mademoiselle Hélène Victoire Marie de Saint-Gré, painted in a costume of Henry the Second's time, with a ruff, you notice, which she wore at a ball given by his Highness the Prince of Condé at Chantilly. A trifle haughty, if you like, Monsieur, but I venture to say you will be hopelessly in love with her within the hour.”
At this there was a general titter from the young gentlemen at the table.
“All of which is neither here nor there, Monsieur,” I answered sharply. “The question is purely a commercial one, and has nothing to do with the lady's character or position.”
“It is well said, Monsieur,” Madame Bouvet put in.
Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gré shrugged his slim shoulders and laid down the portrait on the walnut table.
“Four hundred livres, Monsieur,” he said.
I counted out the money, scrutinized by the curious eyes of his companions, and pushed it over to him. He bowed carelessly, sat him down, and began to shuffle the cards, while I picked up the miniature and walked out of the room. Before I had gone twenty paces I heard them laughing at their game and shouting out the stakes. Suddenly I bethought myself of Nick. What if he should come in and discover the party at the table? I stopped short in the hallway, and there Madame Bouvet overtook me.
“How can I thank you, Monsieur?” she said. And then, “You will return the portrait to Monsieur de Saint-Gré?”