Though she affected indifference, Lanyard saw her slender body transiently shaken by a shudder, it might have been of dread.  But she was quick to pull herself together, and the auctioneer had scarcely found his tongue—­“One thousand guineas for this magnificent canvas attributed to Corot”—­when her clear and youthful voice cut in: 

“Two thousand guineas!”

This the prince capped with a monosyllable: 

“Three!”

Stupefaction settled upon the audience.  The auctioneer hesitated, blinked astonished eyes, framed unspoken phrases with halting lips.  Prince Victor, again gave his wife the full value of his vindictive snarl.  She would not see, but it was plain that she was cruelly dismayed, that it cost her an effort to rise to the topping bid: 

“Thirty-five hundred guineas!”

“Four thousand!”

“Four thousand I am offered ...”

The auctioneer faltered, a spasm of honesty shook him, he proceeded: 

“It is only fair, ladies and gentlemen, that I should state that this canvas is not put up as an authentic Corot.  It very possibly is such, in fact”—­the seizure was passing swiftly—­“it bears every evidence of having come from the brush of the master.  But we cannot guarantee it.  There is, however, a gentleman present who is amply qualified to pass upon the merits of this work.  With his permission”—­his eye sought Lanyard’s—­“I venture to request the opinion of Monsieur Michael Lanyard, the noted connoisseur!”

Lanyard detached a deprecating smile from the pages of his catalogue, but his contemplated response was cut short by Prince Victor.

“I am not aware,” that one said, icily, “that the authenticity of this painting is a material question.  Nor have I any need of the opinion of this gentleman, whatever his qualifications.  I have bid four thousand guineas, and insist that the sale proceed.  If there are no further bids, the canvas is mine.”

The auctioneer shrugged, and offered Lanyard an apologetic bow.  “I am sorry—­” he began.

“Four thousand guineas!” snapped the prince.

Resigned, the auctioneer resumed: 

“Four thousand guineas offered.  Are there any more bids?  Going—­”

“Forty-five hundred!”

Beyond reasonable doubt the princess had spurred herself mercilessly to find sufficient courage to make this latest bid.  Lanyard saw her in a rigour of despair, hoping against hope.  Only too surely something in the picture, some association—­heaven knew what!—­was more precious to her, almost, than life, though she had gone already to the limit of her means and perhaps a bit beyond.  If this bid failed, she was lost.  Her anxiety was pitiful.

“Five thousand!”

In the princess something snapped:  she recoiled upon herself, sat crushed, head drooping, white-gloved hands working in her lap.  One detected an appealing quiver on her lips, and noted, or imagined, a suspicious brightness beneath the long dark lashes that swiftly screened her eyes.  Her young bosom moved convulsively.  She was beaten, near to tears.