She looked at me in astonishment.

“God bless you, Monsieur,” she cried; “if you could see Mamselle ’Toinette you would pay twice the sum.  The whole town loves her.  Monsieur Auguste, Monsieur Auguste!” she shouted, “here is a gentleman who will buy your miniature.”

The six young men stopped talking and stared at me With one accord.  Madame arose, and I followed her down the room towards them, and, had it not been for my indignation, I should have felt sufficiently ridiculous.  Young Monsieur de Saint-Gre came forward with the good-natured, easy insolence to which he had been born, and looked me over.

“Monsieur is an American,” he said.

“I understand that you have offered this miniature for four hundred livres,” I said.

“It is the Jew’s price,” he answered; “mais pardieu, what will you?” he added with a shrug, “I must have the money.  Regardez, Monsieur, you have a bargain.  Here is Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre, daughter of my lord the Marquis of whom I have the honor to be a cousin,” and he made a bow.  “It is by the famous court painter, Joseph Boze, and Mademoiselle de Saint-Gre herself is a favorite of her Majesty.”  He held the portrait close to the candle and regarded it critically.  “Mademoiselle Helene Victoire Marie de Saint-Gre, painted in a costume of Henry the Second’s time, with a ruff, you notice, which she wore at a ball given by his Highness the Prince of Conde at Chantilly.  A trifle haughty, if you like, Monsieur, but I venture to say you will be hopelessly in love with her within the hour.”

At this there was a general titter from the young gentlemen at the table.

“All of which is neither here nor there, Monsieur,” I answered sharply.  “The question is purely a commercial one, and has nothing to do with the lady’s character or position.”

“It is well said, Monsieur,” Madame Bouvet put in.

Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gre shrugged his slim shoulders and laid down the portrait on the walnut table.

“Four hundred livres, Monsieur,” he said.

I counted out the money, scrutinized by the curious eyes of his companions, and pushed it over to him.  He bowed carelessly, sat him down, and began to shuffle the cards, while I picked up the miniature and walked out of the room.  Before I had gone twenty paces I heard them laughing at their game and shouting out the stakes.  Suddenly I bethought myself of Nick.  What if he should come in and discover the party at the table?  I stopped short in the hallway, and there Madame Bouvet overtook me.

“How can I thank you, Monsieur?” she said.  And then, “You will return the portrait to Monsieur de Saint-Gre?”

“I have a letter from Monsieur Gratiot to that gentleman, which I shall deliver in the morning,” I answered.  “And now, Madame, I have a favor to ask of you.”

“I am at Monsieur’s service,” she answered simply.

“When Mr. Temple comes in, he is not to go into that room,” I said, pointing to the door of the saloon; “I have my reasons for requesting it.”