And resting it against the stove, so as to place it in the best light, he fell again to soaking his crusts, without taking his eyes off the wonderful picture.  One would have said that the sight of it gave the crusts an unexpected relish, for he chewed them slowly, and emptied his glass by little sips.  His shrivelled features became smooth, his nostrils expanded; it was indeed, as he said himself, “a feast for the eyes.”

“You see that I also have my treat,” he resumed, nodding his head with an air of triumph.  “Others may run after dinners and balls; as for me, this is the pleasure I give myself for my Carnival.”

“But if this painting is really so precious,” replied I, “it ought to be worth a high price.”

“Eh! eh!” said M. Antoine, with an air of proud indifference.  “In good times, a good judge might value it at somewhere about twenty thousand francs.”

I started back.

“And you have bought it?” cried I.

“For nothing,” replied he, lowering his voice.  “These brokers are asses; mine mistook this for a student’s copy; he let me have it for fifty louis, ready money!  This morning I took them to him, and now he wishes to be off the bargain.”

“This morning!” repeated I, involuntarily casting my eyes on the letter containing the refusal that M. Antoine had made me write to his son’s widow, which was still on the little table.

He took no notice of my exclamation, and went on contemplating the work of Jordaens in an ecstasy.

“What a knowledge of chiaroscuro!” he murmured, biting his last crust in delight.  “What relief! what fire!  Where can one find such transparency of color! such magical lights! such force! such nature!”

As I was listening to him in silence, he mistook my astonishment for admiration, and clapped me on the shoulder.

“You are dazzled,” said he merrily; “you did not expect such a treasure!  What do you say to the bargain I have made?”

“Pardon me,” replied I, gravely; “but I think you might have done better.”

M. Antoine raised his head.

“How!” cried he; “do you take me for a man likely to be deceived about the merit or value of a painting?”

“I neither doubt your taste nor your skill; but I cannot help thinking that, for the price of this picture of a family party, you might have had—­”

“What then?”

“The family itself, sir.”

The old amateur cast a look at me, not of anger, but of contempt.  In his eyes I had evidently just proved myself a barbarian, incapable of understanding the arts, and unworthy of enjoying them.  He got up without answering me, hastily took up the Jordaens, and replaced it in its hiding-place behind the prints.

It was a sort of dismissal; I took leave of him, and went away.

Seven o’clock.—­When I come in again, I find my water boiling over my lamp, and I busy myself in grinding my Mocha, and setting out my coffee-things.