M. de Terremondre had appointed Paillot’s shop as a rendezvous for M. Georges Frémont, the inspector of fine arts, and just at the moment when this civic discussion was in progress, he entered the shop. They were going together to inspect Queen Marguerite’s house. Now, M. Bergeret stood rather in awe of M. Frémont, for he felt himself a poor creature by the side of such a great man. For M. Bergeret, who feared nothing in the world of ideas, was very diffident where living men were concerned. M. de Terremondre had not got the key of the house, so he sent Léon to fetch it, while he made M. Georges Frémont sit down in the corner among the old books. “Monsieur Bergeret,” said he, “is singing the praises of the old-fashioned prisons.” “Not at all,” said M. Bergeret, a little annoyed, “not at all. They were nothing but sewers where the poor wretches lived chained to the wall. But, at any rate, they were not alone—they had companions—and the citizens, as well as the lords and ladies, used to come and visit them. Visiting the prisons was one of the seven works of mercy. Nobody is tempted to do that now, and if they were, the prison regulations would not allow it.” “It is true,” said M. de Terremondre, “that in olden times it was customary to visit the prisoners. In my portfolios I have an engraving by Abraham Bosse, which represents a nobleman wearing a plumed felt hat, accompanying a lady in a veil of Venice point and a peaked brocade bodice, into a dungeon which is swarming with beggars clothed in a few shreds of filthy rags. The engraving is one of a set of seven original proofs which I possess. And with these one always has to be on one’s guard, for nowadays they reprint them from the old worn plates.” “Visiting the prisons,” said Georges Frémont, “is a common subject of Christian art in Italy, Flanders and France. It is treated with peculiar vigour and truth in the Della Robbias on the frieze of painted terra-cotta that surrounds the hospital at Pistoia in its superb embrace.... You know Pistoia, Monsieur Bergeret?...” The Professor had to acknowledge that he had never been in Tuscany. Here M. de Terremondre, who was standing near the door, touched M. Frémont’s arm. “Look, Monsieur Frémont,” said he, “towards the square at the right of the church. You will see the prettiest woman in the town go by.” “That’s Madame de Gromance,” said M. Bergeret. “She is charming.” “She occasions a lot of gossip,” said M. Mazure. “She was a Demoiselle Chapon. Her father was a solicitor, and the greatest skinflint in the department. Yet she is a typical aristocrat.”