He spoke with a note of triumph, and Madame took a curious step towards him.

“Qu’est-ce-que c’est, Monsieur Auguste?” she inquired.

He drew something that glittered from his pocket and beckoned to her to follow him down the room, which she did with alacrity.

“Ha, Adolphe,” he cried to the young man of the puffy face, “I will have my revenge to-night.  Voila!!” and he held up the shining thing, “this goes to the highest bidder, and you will agree that it is worth a pretty sum.”

They rose from their chairs and clustered around him at the table, Madame in their midst, staring with bent heads at the trinket which he held to the light.  It was Madame’s voice I heard first, in a kind of frightened cry.

“Mon Dieu, Monsieur Auguste, you will not part with that!” she exclaimed.

“Why not?” demanded the young man, indifferently.  “It was painted by Boze, the back is solid gold, and the Jew in the Rue Toulouse will give me four hundred livres for it to-morrow morning.”

There followed immediately such a chorus of questions, exclamations, and shrill protests from Madame Bouvet, that I (being such a laborious French scholar) could distinguish but little of what they said.  I looked in wonderment at the gesticulating figures grouped against the light, Madame imploring, the youthful profile of the newcomer marked with a cynical and scornful refusal.  More than once I was for rising out of my chair to go over and see for myself what the object was, and then, suddenly, I perceived Madame Bouvet coming towards me in evident agitation.  She sank into the chair beside me.

“If I had four hundred livres,” she said, “if I had four hundred livres!”

“And what then?” I asked.

“Monsieur,” she said, “a terrible thing has happened.  Auguste de Saint-Gre—­”

“Auguste de Saint-Gre!” I exclaimed.

“He is the son of that Monsieur de Saint-Gre of whom we spoke,” she answered, “a wild lad, a spendthrift, a gambler, if you like.  And yet he is a Saint-Gre, Monsieur, and I cannot refuse him.  It is the miniature of Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre, the daughter of the Marquis, sent to Mamselle ’Toinette, his sister, from France.  How he has obtained it I know not.”

“Ah!” I exclaimed sharply, the explanation of the scene of which I had been a witness coming to me swiftly.  The rascal had wrenched it from her in the gallery and fled.

“Monsieur,” continued Madame, too excited to notice my interruption, “if I had four hundred livres I would buy it of him, and Monsieur de Saint-Gre pere would willingly pay it back in the morning.”

I reflected.  I had a letter in my pocket to Monsieur de Saint-Gre, the sum was not large, and the act of Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gre in every light was detestable.  A rising anger decided me, and I took a wallet from my pocket.

“I will buy the miniature, Madame,” I said.