“Four thousand, fifty-five,” bid the lady in pearls. “Four thousand, sixty,” bid the gentleman in the pince-nez, almost automatically. The lady in pearls set her jaw. “Four thousand, sixty-one,” she pronounced grimly. The blond youth mopped his overheated brow and shot his bolt. “Four thousand, _eighty_!” and, immediately over-bid by the little gentleman in the pince-nez, rushed frantically from the room. Another bid in a voice without identity. “Five thousand miserable little francs!” thundered Ventrillon, scornfully. “And the rate of exchange, what it is? _Bon dieu!_ It is an insult to Mademoiselle Belletaille!” But the sum was already beyond even reason of unreason; it was as if a cold wind had blown into the room. Ventrillon became sensitive to the situation. “Five thousand, five hundred,” suddenly whispered the little gentleman in the pince-nez. “Five thousand, five hundred,” shouted Ventrillon, quickly. “Going, going---” For a moment there was dead silence. “O _Maman_,” excitedly cried the eldest daughter of the lady in pearls, “is it too late?” “_Chut!_” hissed the mother, pinching her daughter’s arm until she squealed. “Gone,” thundered Ventrillon, with finality--“gone to the dignified monsieur in the pince-nez.” That little man advanced conspicuously to take possession. The crowd cheered wildly. Volland made his way in through the uproar. “Of course, my friend,” he said genially, rubbing his hands before the chair of Ventrillon, “you will not forget my commission. A hat is not art, to be sure, but I am accustomed to 10 per cent. on sales made in my galleries.” Ventrillon, with an air, peeled off five hundred-franc notes and one fifty from the huge packet the dignified little monsieur with the pince-nez had produced from his pockets, and presented them to Volland. He who was accustomed to wearing a hat of eight reflections went bareheaded that evening to his garret. “But,” reflected Ventrillon, “one _never_ wears a hat to eat. Politeness forbids.” And that night he would dine extravagantly. EIGHTH REFLECTION At noon the next day Ventrillon woke from the long slumber of the well fed to a nervous knocking at his door. “Who is there?” he roared angrily. “_Chut! Chut!_ But it is I,” loudly whispered the awed voice of the concierge. “There is a lady below----” “Tell her I cannot see her.” “_But_, monsieur, she _says_ that she is the great Mademoiselle Belletaille of the Opéra Comique.” Ventrillon started in alarm. Perhaps that astonishing woman had come with a gun. “Tell her I cannot see her.” “But, monsieur, she resembles precisely her photographs in ‘Excelsior’----” “I don’t care whose photographs she resembles----” But he stopped short, for he heard the footsteps of the Belletaille herself running up the stairs. Ventrillon leaped from his bed, and in his bare legs and shirt flung himself against the door.