Topinard was just going away, proud at heart to have made some return already to the man who had done him so many kindnesses.  He had saved Pons’ friend from a trap, by a stratagem from that world behind the scenes in which every one has more or less ready wit.  And within himself he vowed to protect a musician in his orchestra from future snares set for his simple sincerity.

“Do you see that little wretch?” said La Sauvage.  “He is a kind of honest man that has a mind to poke his nose into M. Schmucke’s affairs.”

“Who is he?” asked Fraisier.

“Oh! he is a nobody.”

“In business there is no such thing as a nobody.”

“Oh, he is employed at the theatre,” said she; “his name is Topinard.”

“Good, Mme. Sauvage!  Go on like this, and you shall have your tobacconist’s shop.”

And Fraisier resumed his conversation with Mme. Cibot.

“So I say, my dear client, that you have not played openly and above-board with me, and that one is not bound in any way to a partner who cheats.”

“And how have I cheated you?” asked La Cibot, hands on hips.  “Do you think that you will frighten me with your sour looks and your frosty airs?  You look about for bad reasons for breaking your promises, and you call yourself an honest man!  Do you know what you are?  You are a blackguard!  Yes! yes! scratch your arm; but just pocket that—­”

“No words, and keep your temper, dearie.  Listen to me.  You have been feathering your nest. . . .  I found this catalogue this morning while we were getting ready for the funeral; it is all in M. Pons’ handwriting, and made out in duplicate.  And as it chanced, my eyes fell on this—­”

And opening the catalogue, he read: 

“No. 7. Magnificent portrait painted on marble, by Sebastian del Piombo, in 1546.  Sold by a family who had it removed from Terni Cathedral.  The picture, which represents a Knight-Templar kneeling in prayer, used to hang above a tomb of the Rossi family with a companion portrait of a Bishop, afterwards purchased by an Englishman.  The portrait might be attributed to Raphael, but for the date.  This example is, to my mind, superior to the portrait of Baccio Bandinelli in the Musee; the latter is a little hard, while the Templar, being painted upon ‘lavagna,’ or slate, has preserved its freshness of coloring.”

“When I come to look for No. 7,” continued Fraisier, “I find a portrait of a lady, signed ‘Chardin,’ without a number on it!  I went through the pictures with the catalogue while the master of ceremonies was making up the number of pall-bearers, and found that eight of those indicated as works of capital importance by M. Pons had disappeared, and eight paintings of no special merit, and without numbers, were there instead. . . .  And finally, one was missing altogether, a little panel-painting by Metzu, described in the catalogue as a masterpiece.”