Fourget took it in his blue-veined hands. His hands trembled. "Oh, I forgot," said Cartaret. "It is in English. Let me translate." He translated. When Charlie looked up from his reading, he found Fourget busily engaged in polishing his spectacles. Perhaps the old man's eyes were weak and could not bear to be without their glasses: they certainly were moist. "I do not see so well as I once saw," the dealer was explaining: his voice was very gruff indeed. "You are wholly certain that this is no trick which one plays upon you?" Cartaret was wholly certain. Fourget made a valiant attempt at expressing his congratulations in a mere Anglo-Saxon handshake. He found it quite inadequate, and this annoyed him. "The world," he growled, "loses a possibly fair artist and gets an idle millionaire." "You get a new shop," vowed Cartaret. "Don't shake your head! I'll make it a business proposition: I've had enough trouble by being suspected of charity. I'm going to buy an interest, and I shan't want my money sunk in anything dark and unsanitary." Fourget shook his gray head again. "Thank you with all my heart, my friend," he said; "but no. This little shop meets my little needs and will last out my little remaining days. I would not leave it for the largest establishment on the boulevards." They talked until Cartaret again bethought him of the café in the rue Jacob. "But you will lend me the two hundred francs," he asked, "and give it to that boy for his picture?" How much a boy that boy seemed now: he was just the boy that Cartaret had been in the long ago time that was yesterday! "Since you insist; but truly, my dear monsieur, myself I was about to weaken and purchase the terrible thing when you interrupted and saved me." ... The money from Seraphin's latest _magnum opus_ not being yet exhausted, Seraphin's friends were lunching at the Café Des Deux Colombes, with little Pasbeaucoup fluttering between them and the kitchen, and Madame, expressionless under her mountain of hair, stuffed into the wire cage and bulging out of it. The company rose when they espied Cartaret, the cadaverous poet Garnier picking up his plate of roast chicken so as not to lose, in his welcoming, time that might be given to eating. Cartaret felt at first somewhat ashamed before them. He felt the contrast between his changed fortunes and their fortunes unchanged. At last, however, the truth escaped him, and then he felt more ashamed than ever, so unenvious were the congratulations that they poured upon him. Devignes' round belly shook with delight. Garnier even stopped eating. "Now you may have the leisure for serious work, which," squeaked Varachon through his broken nose, "your art has so badly needed." Seraphin said nothing, but put his hand on Cartaret's shoulder and gripped it hard. Houdon embraced the fortunate one. "Did I not always tell you?" he demanded of Seraphin. "Did I not say he was a disguised millionaire?"