that belonged to Mme. de Pompadour, and then immediately discontinue his visits.  Count Popinot had pronounced the trinket a masterpiece; when its owner went to Court, the fan had been passed from hand to hand, and her vanity was not a little gratified by the compliments it received; others had dwelt on the beauties of the ten ivory sticks, each one covered with delicate carving, the like of which had never been seen.  A Russian lady (Russian ladies are apt to forget that they are not in Russia) had offered her six thousand francs for the marvel one day at Count Popinot’s house, and smiled to see it in such hands.  Truth to tell, it was a fan for a Duchess.

“It cannot be denied that poor Cousin Pons understands rubbish of that sort—­” said Cecile, the day after the bid.

“Rubbish!” cried her parent.  “Why, Government is just about to buy the late M. le Conseiller Dusommerard’s collection for three hundred thousand francs; and the State and the Municipality of Paris between them are spending nearly a million francs over the purchase and repair of the Hotel de Cluny to house the ‘rubbish,’ as you call it.—­Such ‘rubbish,’ dear child,” he resumed, “is frequently all that remains of vanished civilizations.  An Etruscan jar, and a necklace, which sometimes fetch forty and fifty thousand francs, is ‘rubbish’ which reveals the perfection of art at the time of the siege of Troy, proving that the Etruscans were Trojan refugees in Italy.”

This was the President’s cumbrous way of joking; the short, fat man was heavily ironical with his wife and daughter.

“The combination of various kinds of knowledge required to understand such ‘rubbish,’ Cecile,” he resumed, “is a science in itself, called archaeology.  Archaeology comprehends architecture, sculpture, painting, goldsmiths’ work, ceramics, cabinetmaking (a purely modern art), lace, tapestry—­in short, human handiwork of every sort and description.”

“Then Cousin Pons is learned?” said Cecile.

“Ah! by the by, why is he never to be seen nowadays?” asked the President.  He spoke with the air of a man in whom thousands of forgotten and dormant impressions have suddenly begun to stir, and shaping themselves into one idea, reach consciousness with a ricochet, as sportsmen say.

“He must have taken offence at nothing at all,” answered his wife.  “I dare say I was not as fully sensible as I might have been of the value of the fan that he gave me.  I am ignorant enough, as you know, of—­”

“You! One of Servin’s best pupils, and you don’t know Watteau?” cried the President.

“I know Gerard and David and Gros and Griodet, and M. de Forbin and M. Turpin de Crisse—­”

“You ought—­”

“Ought what, sir?” demanded the lady, gazing at her husband with the air of a Queen of Sheba.

“To know a Watteau when you see it, my dear.  Watteau is very much in fashion,” answered the President with meekness, that told plainly how much he owed to his wife.