“Raphael?” replied Maitland....  “Do you wish me to tell you what Raphael really was?  A sublime builder.  And Titian?  A sublime upholsterer.  It is true, I admired the Sienese very much,” he added, turning toward Dorsenne.  “I spent three months in copying the Simone Martini of the municipality, the Guido Riccio, who rides between two strongholds on a gray heath, where there is not a sign of a tree or a house, but only lances and towers.  Do I remember Lorenzetti?  Above all, the fresco at San Francesco, in which Saint Francois presents his order to the Pope, that was his best work....  Then, there is a cardinal, with his fingers on his lips, thus!” another gesture.  “Well, I remember it, you see, because there is an anecdote.  It is portrayed on a wall—­oh, a grand portrayal, but without the subject, flutt!".... and he made a hissing sound with his lips, “while Pier della Francesca, Carnevale, Melozzo,".... he paused to find a word which would express the very complicated thought in his head, and he concluded:  “That is painting.”

“But the Assumption by Titian, and the Transfiguration by Raphael,” resumed the Countess, who added in Italian, with an accent of enthusiasm:  “Ah, the bellezza!”

“Do not worry, Countess,” said Dorsenne, laughing heartily, “those are an artist’s opinions.  Ten years ago, I said that Victor Hugo was an amateur and Alfred de Musset a bourgeois.  But,” he added, “as I am not descended from the Doges nor the Pilgrim Fathers, I, a poor, degenerate Gallo-Roman, fear the dampness on account of my rheumatism, and ask your permission to reenter the house.”  Then, as he passed through the door of the salon:  “Raphael, a builder!  Titian, an upholsterer!  Lorenzetti, a reproducer!” he repeated to himself.  “And the descendant of the Doges, who listened seriously to those speeches, her ideal should be a madonna en chromo!  Of the first order!  As for Gorka, if he had not made me lose my entire day yesterday, I should think I had been dreaming, so little is there any question of him....  And Ardea, who continues to laugh at his ruin.  He is not bad for an Italian.  But he talks too much about his affairs, and it is in bad taste!"....  Indeed, as he turned toward the group assembled in a corner of the salon, he heard the Prince relating a story about Cavalier Fossati, to whom was entrusted the charge of the sale: 

“How much do you think will be realized on all?” I asked him, finally.  “Oh,” he replied, “very little....  But a little and a little more end by making a great deal.  With what an air he added:  ’E gia il moschino e conte’—­Already the gnat is a count.’  The gnat was himself.  ’A few more sales like yours, my Prince, and my son, the Count of Fossati, will have half a million.  He will enter the club and address you with the familiar ‘thou’ when playing ‘goffo’ against you.  That is what there is in this gia (already)....  On my honor, I have not been happier than since I have, not a sou.”