Remonencq cherished a dream!  He wished to establish himself on a boulevard, to be a rich dealer in curiosities, and do a direct trade with amateurs some day.  And, indeed, within him there was a formidable man of business.  His countenance was the more inscrutable because it was glazed over by a deposit of dust and particles of metal glued together by the sweat of his brow; for he did everything himself, and the use and wont of bodily labor had given him something of the stoical impassibility of the old soldiers of 1799.

In personal appearance Remonencq was short and thin; his little eyes were set in his head in porcine fashion; a Jew’s slyness and concentrated greed looked out of those dull blue circles, though in his case the false humility that masks the Hebrew’s unfathomed contempt for the Gentile was lacking.

The relations between the Cibots and the Remonencqs were those of benefactors and recipients.  Mme. Cibot, convinced that the Auvergnats were wretchedly poor, used to let them have the remainder of “her gentlemen’s” dinners at ridiculous prices.  The Remonencqs would buy a pound of broken bread, crusts and crumbs, for a farthing, a porringer-full of cold potatoes for something less, and other scraps in proportion.  Remonencq shrewdly allowed them to believe that he was not in business on his own account, he worked for Monistrol, the rich shopkeepers preyed upon him, he said, and the Cibots felt sincerely sorry for Remonencq.  The velveteen jacket, waistcoat, and trousers, particularly affected by Auvergnats, were covered with patches of Cibot’s making, and not a penny had the little tailor charged for repairs which kept the three garments together after eleven years of wear.

Thus we see that all Jews are not in Israel.

“You are not laughing at me, Remonencq, are you?” asked the portress.  “Is it possible that M. Pons has such a fortune, living as he does?  There is not a hundred francs in the place—­”

“Amateursh are all like that,” Remonencq remarked sententiously.

“Then do you think that my gentleman has worth of seven hundred thousand francs, eh?—­”

“In pictures alone,” continued Remonencq (it is needless, for the sake of clearness in the story, to give any further specimens of his frightful dialect).  “If he would take fifty thousand francs for one up there that I know of, I would find the money if I had to hang myself.  Do you remember those little frames full of enameled copper on crimson velvet, hanging among the portraits? . . .  Well, those are Petitot’s enamels; and there is a cabinet minister as used to be a druggist that will give three thousand francs apiece for them.”

La Cibot’s eyes opened wide.  “There are thirty of them in the pair of frames!” she said.

“Very well, you can judge for yourself how much he is worth.”