Just then Oliver returned. In his hand he carried a small box of curiously-wrought iron. Unlocking it, he raised the lid, removed a layer of cotton, and then, tilting it, emptied upon the table a handful of diamonds, that fell flashing and sparkling like broken fragments of sunlight. One or two of the gems rolled across the table and fell hopping to the floor, but Oliver did not appear to notice them. There was a pause of blank and utter silence. Madame de Monnière herself could not have been more amazed at the sight she beheld than was the Marquis de Flourens. Oliver spread out the gems upon the table with his hand, as though they were so many glass beads. It was the marquis who broke the silence. "Mon Dieu!" he whispered at last, and fetched a breath so deep that it seemed to come from the pit of his stomach. Then he roused himself. "You have dropped some upon the floor," said he. "I saw them fall." And he would have stooped to find them. Oliver smiled. "It is of no importance," said he. "Henri will find them by-and-by." For a while the marquis examined the stones in silence, picking out some of the larger gems, and scrutinizing them closely and critically, one after another. "It is a most magnificent collection, my young friend," said he at last. "I never saw a finer lot of diamonds in my life, excepting the King's." "Oh, these are but a few," said Oliver. "I am sorry that I have not some of my larger and finer stones to show you." "Only a few?" repeated the marquis. "And how much, then, do you suppose that this collection of diamonds is worth?" "That would be hard to tell," said Oliver, smiling. "But perhaps not more than half a million livres. None of the stones are very large or fine." [Illustration: "OLIVER SPREAD OUT THE GEMS UPON THE TABLE WITH HIS HAND."] "Not large? Not fine?" cried the marquis, and he picked out a diamond from among the rest. "What, then, do you call this?" "It is off color," said Oliver. "It is a treasure that a king might covet!" cried the marquis, enthusiastically. Oliver laughed. "You admire it?" said he. "Then do me the favor to accept it." The marquis rose to his feet. "Oh," he cried, "this is too much! I do not dare." "You pain me by refusing," said Oliver. "As a connoisseur, monseigneur, as a collector--" "Ah!" said the marquis, "there you touch me again. As a collector--well, then, I accept it," and he slipped it into his waistcoat pocket. "Embrace me, Oliver!" Oliver's mother was long past wondering at anything, or else she might have thought it a little strange to see Oliver--Oliver, the son of Jean Munier, the tailor--clasped in the arms of Monseigneur the Marquis of Flourens. The marquis released Oliver from his embrace and sat down again. "But tell me," said he, "you and madame, you then live here?" He looked around, and Oliver's eyes followed his. It certainly was a poor house for one who could empty half a million livres' worth of diamonds upon a table.