well afford to pay you four thousand francs for making the copies, since he keeps the frames—­but bless me! you’ll want frames; and they say frames cost more than pictures; there’s more gold on them.  Answer, monsieur,” she continued, shaking the old man’s arm.  “Hein? it isn’t dear; your nephew will take four thousand francs for new pictures in the place of the old ones.  It is,” she whispered in his ear, “a very good way to give him four thousand francs; he doesn’t look to me very flush—­”

“Well, nephew, I will pay you four thousand francs for the copies—­”

“No, no!” said the honest Joseph; “four thousand francs and the pictures, that’s too much; the pictures, don’t you see, are valuable—­”

“Accept, simpleton!” said Flore; “he is your uncle, you know.”

“Very good, I accept,” said Joseph, bewildered by the luck that had befallen him; for he had recognized a Perugino.

The result was that the artist beamed with satisfaction as he went out of the house with the Rabouilleuse on his arm, all of which helped Maxence’s plans immensely.  Neither Flore, nor Rouget, nor Max, nor indeed any one in Issoudun knew the value of the pictures, and the crafty Max thought he had bought Flore’s triumph for a song, as she paraded triumphantly before the eyes of the astonished town, leaning on the arm of her master’s nephew, and evidently on the best of terms with him.  People flocked to their doors to see the crab-girl’s triumph over the family.  This astounding event made the sensation on which Max counted; so that when they all returned at five o’clock, nothing was talked of in every household but the cordial understanding between Max and Flore and the nephew of old Rouget.  The incident of the pictures and the four thousand francs circulated already.  The dinner, at which Lousteau, one of the court judges, and the Mayor of Issoudun were present, was splendid.  It was one of those provincial dinners lasting five hours.  The most exquisite wines enlivened the conversation.  By nine o’clock, at dessert, the painter, seated opposite to his uncle, and between Flore and Max, had fraternized with the soldier, and thought him the best fellow on earth.  Joseph returned home at eleven o’clock somewhat tipsy.  As to old Rouget, Kouski had carried him to his bed dead-drunk; he had eaten as though he were an actor from foreign parts, and had soaked up the wine like the sands of the desert.

“Well,” said Max when he was alone with Flore, “isn’t this better than making faces at them?  The Bridaus are well received, they get small presents, and are smothered with attentions, and the end of it is they will sing our praises; they will go away satisfied and leave us in peace.  To-morrow morning you and I and Kouski will take down all those pictures and send them over to the painter, so that he shall see them when he wakes up.  We will put the frames in the garret, and cover the walls with one of those varnished papers which represent scenes from Telemachus, such as I have seen at Monsieur Mouilleron’s.”