“Your collection is fine enough to attract the attention of _chineurs_,” Remonencq answered astutely. “I am not much in the art line myself; but you are supposed to be such a great connoisseur, sir, that with my eyes shut--supposing, for instance, that you should need money some time or other, for nothing costs so much as these confounded illnesses; there was my sister now, when she would have got better again just as well without. Doctors are rascals that take advantage of your condition to--” “Thank you, good-day, good-day,” broke in Pons, eying the marine store-dealer uneasily. “I will go to the door with him, for fear he should touch something,” La Cibot whispered to her patient. “Yes, yes,” answered the invalid, thanking her by a glance. La Cibot shut the bedroom door behind her, and Pons’ suspicions awoke again at once. She found Magus standing motionless before the four pictures. His immobility, his admiration, can only be understood by other souls open to ideal beauty, to the ineffable joy of beholding art made perfect; such as these can stand for whole hours before the _Antiope_--Correggio’s masterpiece--before Leonardo’s _Gioconda_, Titian’s _Mistress_, Andrea del Sarto’s _Holy Family_, Domenichino’s _Children Among the Flowers_, Raphael’s little cameo, or his _Portrait of an Old Man_--Art’s greatest masterpieces. “Be quick and go, and make no noise,” said La Cibot. The Jew walked slowly backwards, giving the pictures such a farewell gaze as a lover gives his love. Outside on the landing, La Cibot tapped his bony arm. His rapt contemplations had put an idea into her head. “Make it _four_ thousand francs for each picture,” said she, “or I do nothing.” “I am so poor!...” began Magus. “I want the pictures simply for their own sake, simply and solely for the love of art, my dear lady.” “I can understand that love, sonny, you are so dried up. But if you do not promise me sixteen thousand francs now, before Remonencq here, I shall want twenty to-morrow.” “Sixteen; I promise,” returned the Jew, frightened by the woman’s rapacity. La Cibot turned to Remonencq. “What oath can a Jew swear?” she inquired. “You may trust him,” replied the marine store-dealer. “He is as honest as I am.” “Very well; and you?” asked she, “if I get him to sell them to you, what will you give me?” “Half-share of profits,” Remonencq answered briskly. “I would rather have a lump sum,” returned La Cibot; “I am not in business myself.” “You understand business uncommonly well!” put in Elie Magus, smiling; “a famous saleswoman you would make!”