This conversation was interrupted by Poterne’s arrival; he still wore his shabby box-coat, beneath which he carried something of considerable size, which he kept carefully out of sight. Jasmin made a very significant grimace at the appearance of the very person of whom he had been speaking. But Monsieur Poterne came forward with a most humble air, bowing to the ground, and trying to assume a pleasant expression. “Ah! it’s Monsieur Poterne!” said Chérubin, laughing at his old servant’s pantomime. “I was just talking about you with Jasmin, who declares that my Spanish cat is turning white.” Monsieur Poterne replied, with a sneering laugh that sounded like the rattling of copper sous in a saucepan: “Monsieur Jasmin is joking! The cat that I had the honor to sell you is very valuable; he used to belong to a Spanish grandee. It is possible that he may turn white temporarily; he may not be well; but the color will all come back if you take good care of him.” “Do you mean that you think that animals aren’t well fed in our house?” demanded Jasmin haughtily. “I didn’t mean that, my dear monsieur; but Spanish cats are very delicate, and----” “All right,” said Chérubin, “we have talked enough about a cat. Doubtless you have come to offer me something new, Monsieur Poterne? for you are an invaluable man! With you one has no time to form a wish.” “Monsieur le marquis is too kind; as it happens, I have something.” As he spoke, Monsieur Poterne bestowed a savage glance on the old valet, whose presence embarrassed him; but Jasmin did not budge, and as his master did not tell him to go, Monsieur Poterne was fain to make up his mind to exhibit before him what he had under his coat. “Well, what have you brought me to-day?” asked Chérubin. “What I have brought you, monsieur le marquis,--is a bargain.” “Always bargains,” muttered Jasmin; “we know all about that.” “I have just come from the sale at an ex-minister’s house; he was a great epicure. At your age, monsieur le marquis, young people like sweetmeats--good things--especially those that are hard to get. Faith, when this was put up for sale, I thought that you might like it.” As he spoke, Monsieur Poterne produced from beneath his coat a huge jar of blue china, carefully sealed with parchment. “What is there in that, Monsieur Poterne?” “Indian preserve, monsieur le marquis; it’s a very popular sweetmeat in hot countries, and very rare in France, on account of the difficulty of bringing it here; this is made of pineapples.” “The deuce!” muttered Jasmin; “he’s taken to bringing us eatables now! This is the finishing touch!” “A jar of this size is ordinarily worth a hundred francs at Chevet’s, when he has any. I got this for fifty, and I bought it with the intention of offering it to you.” “Thanks, Monsieur Poterne; pineapple preserve should be delicious, in very truth.--Jasmin, give Monsieur Poterne fifty francs, then take this preserve to the pantry.”