“You are not laughing at me, Remonencq, are you?” asked the portress. “Is it possible that M. Pons has such a fortune, living as he does? There is not a hundred francs in the place--” “Amateursh are all like that,” Remonencq remarked sententiously. “Then do you think that my gentleman has worth of seven hundred thousand francs, eh?--” “In pictures alone,” continued Remonencq (it is needless, for the sake of clearness in the story, to give any further specimens of his frightful dialect). “If he would take fifty thousand francs for one up there that I know of, I would find the money if I had to hang myself. Do you remember those little frames full of enameled copper on crimson velvet, hanging among the portraits?... Well, those are Petitot’s enamels; and there is a cabinet minister as used to be a druggist that will give three thousand francs apiece for them.” La Cibot’s eyes opened wide. “There are thirty of them in the pair of frames!” she said. “Very well, you can judge for yourself how much he is worth.” Mme. Cibot’s head was swimming; she wheeled round. In a moment came the thought that she would have a legacy, _she_ would sleep sound on old Pons’ will, like the other servant-mistresses whose annuities had aroused such envy in the Marais. Her thoughts flew to some commune in the neighborhood of Paris; she saw herself strutting proudly about her house in the country, looking after her garden and poultry yard, ending her days, served like a queen, along with her poor dear Cibot, who deserved such good fortune, like all angelic creatures whom nobody knows nor appreciates. Her abrupt, unthinking movement told Remonencq that success was sure. In the _chineur’s_ way of business--the _chineur_, be it explained, goes about the country picking up bargains at the expense of the ignorant--in the _chineur’s_ way of business, the one real difficulty is the problem of gaining an entrance to a house. No one can imagine the Scapin’s roguery, the tricks of a Sganarelle, the wiles of a Dorine by which the _chineur_ contrives to make a footing for himself. These comedies are as good as a play, and founded indeed on the old stock theme of the dishonesty of servants. For thirty francs in money or goods, servants, and especially country servants, will sometimes conclude a bargain on which the _chineur_ makes a profit of a thousand or two thousand francs. If we could but know the history of such and such a service of Sevres porcelain, _pate tendre_, we should find that all the intellect, all the diplomatic subtlety displayed at Munster, Nimeguen, Utrecht, Ryswick, and Vienna was surpassed by the _chineur_. His is the more frank comedy; his methods of action fathom depths of personal interest quite as profound as any that plenipotentiaries can explore in their difficult search for any means of breaking up the best cemented alliances.