“Mon Dieu!” said I, “it is difficult to keep a treasure in one’s house without the public knowing all about it. I fancy that I can divine the surprise that you have in store for me. But if you refer to your statue, the description of it that my guide gave me has served simply to arouse my curiosity and to predispose me to admiration.” “Ah! so he spoke to you about the idol--for that is what they call my beautiful Venus Tur--but I will tell you nothing now. You shall see her to-morrow, by daylight, and tell me whether I am justified in considering her a _chef-d’œuvre_. Parbleu! you could not have arrived more opportunely! There are some inscriptions which I, poor ignoramus that I am, interpret after my manner. But a scholar from Paris! It may be that you will make fun of my interpretation--for I have written a memoir--I, who speak to you, an old provincial antiquary, have made a start; I propose to make the printing-presses groan. If you would kindly read and correct me, I might hope. For example, I am very curious to know how you will translate this inscription on the pedestal: CAVE--but I won’t ask you anything yet. Until to-morrow! until to-morrow! Not a word about the Venus to-day!” “You are quite right, Peyrehorade,” said his wife, “to let your old idol rest. You must see that you are keeping monsieur from eating. Bah! monsieur has seen much finer statues than yours in Paris. There are dozens of them at the Tuileries, and bronze ones, too.” “There you have the ignorance, the blessed ignorance of the provinces!” interrupted M. de Peyrehorade. “Think of comparing an admirable antique to Coustou’s insipid figures! “‘With what irreverence Doth my good wife speak of the gods!’ Would you believe that my wife wanted me to melt my statue and make it into a bell for our church! She would have been the donor, you see. A _chef-d’œuvre_ of Myron, monsieur!” “_Chef-d’œuvre! chef-d’œuvre!_ a pretty _chef-d’œuvre_ she made! to break a man’s leg!” “Look you, my wife,” said M. de Peyrehorade in a determined tone, extending his right leg encased in a stocking of Chinese silk, in her direction, “if my Venus had broken this leg, I should not regret it.” “Gracious Heaven! how can you say that, Peyrehorade? Luckily the man is getting better. Still, I can’t make up my mind to look at the statue that causes such accidents as that. Poor Jean Coll!” “Wounded by Venus, monsieur,” said M. de Peyrehorade, with a chuckle, “wounded by Venus, the clown complains: “‘Veneris nec præmia noris.’ “Who has not been wounded by Venus?” M. Alphonse, who understood French better than Latin, winked with a knowing look, and glanced at me as if to ask: “And you, Monsieur le Parisien, do you understand?”