Then, considering our interview at an end, he bowed and withdrew to his own apartments.

I looked for the Countess Dannegianti.  She had sunk into her great armchair, and was weeping hot tears.

Ten minutes later, M. Charnot and Jeanne entered with me into the jealously guarded museum.

Museum was the only name to give to a collection of such artistic value, occupying, as it did, the whole of the ground floor to the right of the hall.  Two rooms ran parallel to each other, filled with pictures, medals, and engravings, and were connected by a narrow gallery devoted to sculpture.

Hardly was the door opened when M. Charnot sought the famous medals with his eye.  There they were in the middle of the room in two rows of cases.  He was deeply moved.  I thought he was about to make a raid upon them, attracted after his kind by the ‘auri sacra fames’, by the yellow gleam of those ancient coins, the names, family, obverse and reverse of which he knew by heart.  But I little understood the enthusiast.

He drew out his handkerchief and spectacles, and while he was wiping the glasses he gave a rapid and impatient glance at the works that adorned the walls.  None of them could charm the numismatist’s heart.  After he had enjoyed the pleasure of proving how feeble in comparison were the charms of a Titian or a Veronese, then only did M. Charnot walk step by step to the first case and bend reverently over it.

Yet the collection of paintings was unworthy of such disdain.  The pictures were few, but all were signed with great names, most of them Italian, a few Dutch, Flemish, or German.  I began to work systematically through them, pleased at the want of a catalogue and the small number of inscriptions on the frames.  To be your own guide doubles your pleasure; you can get your impression of a picture entirely at first hand; you are filled with admiration without any one having told you that you are bound to go into ecstasies.  You can work out for yourself from a picture, by induction and comparison, its subject, its school, and its author, unless it proclaims, in every stroke of the brush, “I am a Hobbema,” “a Perugino,” or “a Giotto.”

I was somewhat distracted, however, by the voice of the old numismatist, as he peered into the cases, and constrained his daughter to share in the exuberance of his learned enthusiasm.

“Jeanne, look at this; crowned head of Cleopatra, Mark Antony on the reverse; in perfect condition, isn’t it?  See, an Italian ’as-Iguvium Umbriae’, which my friend Pousselot has sought these thirty years!  Oh, my dear, this is important:  Annius Verus on the reverse of Commodus, both as children, a rare example—­yet not as rare as—­Jeanne, you must engrave this gold medal in your heart, it is priceless:  head of Augustus with laurel, Diana walking on the reverse.  You ought to take an interest in her.  Diana the fair huntress.

“This collection is heavenly!  Wait a minute; we shall soon come to the Annia Faustina.”