“Thank you, good-day, good-day,” broke in Pons, eying the marine store-dealer uneasily.

“I will go to the door with him, for fear he should touch something,” La Cibot whispered to her patient.

“Yes, yes,” answered the invalid, thanking her by a glance.

La Cibot shut the bedroom door behind her, and Pons’ suspicions awoke again at once.

She found Magus standing motionless before the four pictures.  His immobility, his admiration, can only be understood by other souls open to ideal beauty, to the ineffable joy of beholding art made perfect; such as these can stand for whole hours before the Antiope —­Correggio’s masterpiece—­before Leonardo’s Gioconda, Titian’s Mistress, Andrea del Sarto’s Holy Family, Domenichino’s Children Among the Flowers, Raphael’s little cameo, or his Portrait of an Old Man—­Art’s greatest masterpieces.

“Be quick and go, and make no noise,” said La Cibot.

The Jew walked slowly backwards, giving the pictures such a farewell gaze as a lover gives his love.  Outside on the landing, La Cibot tapped his bony arm.  His rapt contemplations had put an idea into her head.

“Make it four thousand francs for each picture,” said she, “or I do nothing.”

“I am so poor! . . .” began Magus.  “I want the pictures simply for their own sake, simply and solely for the love of art, my dear lady.”

“I can understand that love, sonny, you are so dried up.  But if you do not promise me sixteen thousand francs now, before Remonencq here, I shall want twenty to-morrow.”

“Sixteen; I promise,” returned the Jew, frightened by the woman’s rapacity.

La Cibot turned to Remonencq.

“What oath can a Jew swear?” she inquired.

“You may trust him,” replied the marine store-dealer.  “He is as honest as I am.”

“Very well; and you?” asked she, “if I get him to sell them to you, what will you give me?”

“Half-share of profits,” Remonencq answered briskly.

“I would rather have a lump sum,” returned La Cibot; “I am not in business myself.”

“You understand business uncommonly well!” put in Elie Magus, smiling; “a famous saleswoman you would make!”

“I want her to take me into partnership, me and my goods,” said the Auvergnat, as he took La Cibot’s plump arm and gave it playful taps like hammer-strokes.  “I don’t ask her to bring anything into the firm but her good looks!  You are making a mistake when your stick to your Turk of a Cibot and his needle.  Is a little bit of a porter the man to make a woman rich—­a fine woman like you?  Ah, what a figure you would make in a shop on the boulevard, all among the curiosities, gossiping with amateurs and twisting them round your fingers!  Just you leave your lodge as soon as you have lined your purse here, and you shall see what will become of us both.”

“Lined my purse!” cried Cibot.  “I am incapable of taking the worth of a single pin; you mind that, Remonencq!  I am known in the neighborhood for an honest woman, I am.”