"You see, it is painted in the beginning of Corot's later manner--it is
1864. There is the mystery which, when he was quite an old man, became a
trick. If you were to put it up to auction at Christie's it would fetch,
I am sure, five thousand pounds."
"That's more than I can afford to give," said the young man, with a
laugh. "Mr. Smith mentioned something between three and four thousand
pounds. I don't think I can go above three."
"I have nothing to do with it, my dear boy, nothing whatever," said Mr.
Smith, rubbing his hands. "You wanted a Corot. I said I thought I could
put you on to one. It's for the Baron here to mention his price. I
retire now and for ever."
"Well, Baron?" said the young man, cheerfully. "What's your idea?"
Aristide came forward and resumed his place at the end of the table. The
picture was in front of him beneath the strong electric light; on his
left stood Mr. Smith and Poiron, on his right Miss Christabel and the
Honourable Harry.
"I'll not take three thousand pounds for it," said Aristide. "A picture
like that! Never!"
"I assure you it would be a fair price," said Poiron.
"You mentioned that figure yourself only just now," said Mr. Smith, with
an ugly glitter in his little pig's eyes.
"I presume, gentlemen," said Aristide, "that this picture is my own
property." He turned engagingly to his host. "Is it not, _cher ami_?"
"Of course it is. Who said it wasn't?"
"And you, M. Poiron, acknowledge formally that it is mine," he asked, in
French.
"_Sans aucun doute._"
"_Eh bien_," said Aristide, throwing open his arms and gazing round
sweetly. "I have changed my mind. I do not sell the picture at all."
"Not sell it? What the--what do you mean?" asked Mr. Smith, striving to
mellow the gathering thunder on his brow.
"I do not sell," said Aristide. "Listen, my dear friends!" He was in the
seventh heaven of happiness--the principal man, the star, taking the
centre of the stage. "I have an announcement to make to you. I have
fallen desperately in love with mademoiselle."
There was a general gasp. Mr. Smith looked at him, red-faced and
open-mouthed. Miss Christabel blushed furiously and emitted a sound half
between a laugh and a scream. Harry Ralston's eyes flashed.
"My dear sir----" he began.
"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 Chateau 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 fiances," he cried. "Lots
of champagne."
Mr. Smith looked at him almost admiringly.
"By Jove!" he muttered. "You _have_ got a nerve."
* * * * *
"_Voila!_" 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 Chateau de Mireilles, with my priceless collection of
pictures, had been burned to the ground."