The Countess Martin recognized at once a banal and doubtful collection; she felt bored among the multitude of little Parrocels, showing in the darkness a bit of armor and a white horse. A valet presented a card. The Prince read aloud the name of Jacques Dechartre. At that moment he was turning his back on the two visitors. His face wore the expression of cruel displeasure one finds on the marble busts of Roman emperors. Dechartre was on the staircase. The Prince went toward him with a languid smile. He was no longer Nero, but Antinous. “I invited Monsieur Dechartre to come to the Albertinelli palace,” said Miss Bell. “I knew it would please you. He wished to see your gallery.” And it is true that Dechartre had wished to be there with Madame Martin. Now all four walked among the Guidos and the Albanos. Miss Bell babbled to the Prince--her usual prattle about those old men and those Virgins whose blue mantles were agitated by an immovable tempest. Dechartre, pale, enervated, approached Therese, and said to her, in a low tone: “This gallery is a warehouse where picture dealers of the entire world hang the things they can not sell. And the Prince sells here things that Jews could not sell.” He led her to a Holy Family exhibited on an easel draped with green velvet, and bearing on the border the name of Michael-Angelo. “I have seen that Holy Family in the shops of picture-dealers of London, of Basle, and of Paris. As they could not get the twenty-five louis that it is worth, they have commissioned the last of the Albertinellis to sell it for fifty thousand francs.” The Prince, divining what they were saying, approached them gracefully. “There is a copy of this picture almost everywhere. I do not affirm that this is the original. But it has always been in the family, and old inventories attribute it to Michael-Angelo. That is all I can say about it.” And the Prince turned toward Miss Bell, who was trying to find pictures by the pre-Raphaelites.