"Pardon," said Aristide, disarming him with the merry splendour of his glance. "I do not wish to take mademoiselle from you. My love is hopeless! I know it. But it will feed me to my dying day. In return for the joy of this hopeless passion I will not sell you the picture--I give it to you as a wedding present." He stood, with the air of a hero, both arms extended towards the amazed pair of lovers. "I give it to you," said he. "It is mine. I have no wish but for your happiness. In my Château de Mireilles there are a hundred others." "This is madness!" said Mr. Smith, bursting with suppressed indignation, so that his bald head grew scarlet. "My dear fellow!" said Mr. Harry Ralston. "It is unheard-of generosity on your part. But we can't accept it." "Then," said Aristide, advancing dramatically to the picture, "I take it under my arm, I put it in a hansom cab, and I go with it back to Languedoc." Mr. Smith caught him by the wrist and dragged him out of the room. "You little brute! Do you want your neck broken?" "Do you want the marriage of your daughter with the rich and Honourable Harry broken?" asked Aristide. "Oh, damn! Oh, damn! Oh, damn!" cried Mr. Smith, stamping about helplessly and half weeping. Aristide entered the dining-room and beamed on the company. "The kind Mr. Smith has consented. Mr. Honourable Harry and Miss Christabel, there is your Corot. And now, may I be permitted?" He rang the bell. A servant appeared. "Some champagne to drink to the health of the fiancés," he cried. "Lots of champagne." Mr. Smith looked at him almost admiringly. "By Jove!" he muttered. "You _have_ got a nerve." * * * * * "_Voilà!_" said Aristide, when he had finished the story. "And did they accept the Corot?" I asked. "Of course. It is hanging now in the big house in Hampshire. I stayed with the kind Mr. Smith for six weeks," he added, doubling himself up in his chair and hugging himself with mirth, "and we became very good friends. And I was at the wedding." "And what about their honeymoon visit to Languedoc?" "Alas!" said Aristide. "The morning before the wedding I had a telegram--it was from my old father at Aigues-Mortes--to tell me that the historic Château de Mireilles, with my priceless collection of pictures, had been burned to the ground." IV THE ADVENTURE OF THE FOUNDLING