And he greatly amused the young fellows by telling them about Naudet, with whom he was well acquainted.  He was a dealer, who, for some few years, had been revolutionising the picture trade.  There was nothing of the old fashion about his style—­the greasy coat and keen taste of Papa Malgras, the watching for the pictures of beginners, bought at ten francs, to be resold at fifteen, all the little humdrum comedy of the connoisseur, turning up his nose at a coveted canvas in order to depreciate it, worshipping painting in his inmost heart, and earning a meagre living by quickly and prudently turning over his petty capital.  No, no; the famous Naudet had the appearance of a nobleman, with a fancy-pattern jacket, a diamond pin in his scarf, and patent-leather boots; he was well pomaded and brushed, and lived in fine style, with a livery-stable carriage by the month, a stall at the opera, and his particular table at Bignon’s.  And he showed himself wherever it was the correct thing to be seen.  For the rest, he was a speculator, a Stock Exchange gambler, not caring one single rap about art.  But he unfailingly scented success, he guessed what artist ought to be properly started, not the one who seemed likely to develop the genius of a great painter, furnishing food for discussion, but the one whose deceptive talent, set off by a pretended display of audacity, would command a premium in the market.  And that was the way in which he revolutionised that market, giving the amateur of taste the cold shoulder, and only treating with the moneyed amateur, who knew nothing about art, but who bought a picture as he might buy a share at the Stock Exchange, either from vanity or with the hope that it would rise in value.

At this stage of the conversation Bongrand, very jocular by nature, and with a good deal of the mummer about him, began to enact the scene.  Enter Naudet in Fagerolles’ studio.

’"You’ve real genius, my dear fellow.  Your last picture is sold, then?  For how much?”

’"For five hundred francs.”

’"But you must be mad; it was worth twelve hundred.  And this one which you have by you—­how much?”

’"Well, my faith, I don’t know.  Suppose we say twelve hundred?”

’"What are you talking about?  Twelve hundred francs!  You don’t understand me, then, my boy; it’s worth two thousand.  I take it at two thousand.  And from this day forward you must work for no one but myself—­for me, Naudet.  Good-bye, good-bye, my dear fellow; don’t overwork yourself—­your fortune is made.  I have taken it in hand.”  Wherewith he goes off, taking the picture with him in his carriage.  He trots it round among his amateurs, among whom he has spread the rumour that he has just discovered an extraordinary painter.  One of the amateurs bites at last, and asks the price.

“’Five thousand.”

’"What, five thousand francs for the picture of a man whose name hasn’t the least notoriety?  Are you playing the fool with me?”