“With pleasure,” said the artist, unable to discern the smallest objection.
While Flore was putting on her bonnet, her gloves, and her cashmere shawl, Joseph suddenly caught sight of the pictures, and started to his feet as if some enchanter had touched him with his wand.
“Ah, ha! so you have pictures, uncle?” said he, looking at the one that had struck him.
“Yes,” said the old fellow, “they came to me from the Descoings, who, during the Revolution, bought up some of the pickings of the convents and churches of le Berry.”
But Joseph was not listening. He went from picture to picture.
“Magnificent!” he exclaimed. “Why, what a fine thing! That man did not spoil canvas. Bless me, why, better and better; as we see them at Nicolet’s—”
“There are seven or eight more, very large ones, in the loft, that were kept for the sake of the frames,” said Gilet.
“Let me see them,” cried the artist, and Maxence took him to the loft.
Joseph came down in raptures. Max said a word in la Rabouilleuse’s ear, and she led the old man to the window; Joseph caught these words spoken in an undertone, but still so that he could hear them:
“Your nephew is a painter; you can do nothing with these pictures. Be good-natured, and give them to him.”
“It would seem,” said Rouget, leaning on Flore’s arm, and coming to the spot where his nephew stood in ecstasies before an Albano—“it would seem that you are a painter—”
“Only a smudger as yet,” said Joseph.
“Whatever is that?” said Flore.
“A beginner,” said Joseph.
“Well,” said Jean-Jacques, “if these pictures can be of any use to you in your business, I will give them to you. … But without the frames. The frames are gilt, and then they are quaint; I will put—”
“Why, of course, uncle,” cried Joseph, enchanted, “you will put copies into them, which I will send you, and which shall be of the same size.”
“But that will take time, and you will want canvas and paints,” said Flore. “It will cost you money. Come, Père Rouget, suppose you offer your nephew a hundred francs for each picture; there are twenty-seven here, and I think then are eleven more in the loft, which are enormous, and ought to cost double—say four thousand francs for the lot. Yes, your uncle may very well spend four thousand francs on the copies since he is to keep the frames. You will have to get frames too, and they say the frames cost more than the pictures; there is gold on them. … I say, monsieur,” Flore went on, shaking the old man’s arm, “listen, that is no dear: your nephew will charge you four thousand francs for quite new pictures in the place of your old ones. … It is a civil way of making him a present of the money,” said she in his ear. “He does not strike me as being very flush—”
“Very well, nephew, I will pay you four thousand francs for the copies—”
“No, no,” said Joseph honestly. “Four thousand francs and the pictures is too much; for the pictures, you see, are of value.”
“Why, accept it, booby,” said Flore, “since he is your uncle …”
“Very well, I accept it,” said Joseph, quite bewildered, for he had recognized one picture as by Perugino.
So the artist looked quite gleeful as he went out, giving his arm to la Rabouilleuse, which perfectly suited Max’s purpose. Neither Flore, nor Rouget, nor Max, nor anyone at Issoudun had any idea of the value of the pictures, and the wily Max believed that he had purchased very cheaply Flore’s triumph as she marched proudly arm in arm with her master’s nephew, on the best possible terms with him, in the eyes of the astonished townsfolk. People came to their doors to see the victory of la Rabouilleuse over the family. This astounding fact made the deep sensation on which Max had built his hopes. So when the uncle and nephew went in at about five, the talk in every household was of the perfect alliance between Flore and Max and Père Rouget’s nephew. And the story of the gift of the pictures and the four thousand francs was all over the town already.
The dinner, to which Lousteau, one of the judges, and the Mayor of Issoudun, was invited, was really splendid; it was one of the country meals which last five hours. The finest wines gave spirit to the conversation. Over the dessert, at nine o’clock, the painter, seated between Flore and Max, opposite his uncle, was almost hail-fellow with the officer, whom he thought the best of good souls. At eleven o’clock Joseph went home, a little screwed. As to old Rouget, Kouski carried him to bed dead drunk; he had eaten like a traveling actor, and drunk like the sands of the desert.
“Well, now,” said Max, left alone with Flore, “is not this better than sulking with them? The Bridaus are well received; they will get some little presents, and, loaded with favors, they can only sing our praises; they will go quietly away, and leave us quietly where we are. Tomorrow morning Kouski and I between us will take out all those pictures, and send them over for the painter to see them when he wakes; we will put the frames in the loft, and have the room repapered with one of those varnished papers, with scenes on it from Télémaque, such as I saw at Monsieur Mouilleron’s.”
“Why, that will be ever so much prettier!” cried Flore.
Joseph did not wake till noon next day. From his bed he saw the pictures leaning one above another, having been brought in without his hearing anything. While he was examining them afresh, and recognizing them as masterpieces, studying the handling of each master, or finding their
