"Portraits bring five hundred francs apiece," went on Elie; "so you
can very well afford to paint me three pictures."

"True for you!" cried Fougeres, gleefully.

"And if you marry the girl, you won't forget me."

"Marry! I?" cried Pierre Grassou,--"I, who have a habit of sleeping
alone; and get up at cock-crow, and all my life arranged--"

"One hundred thousand francs," said Magus, "and a quiet girl, full of
golden tones, as you call 'em, like a Titian."

"What class of people are they?"

"Retired merchants; just now in love with art; have a country-house at
Ville d'Avray, and ten or twelve thousand francs a year."

"What business did they do?"

"Bottles."

"Now don't say that word; it makes me think of corks and sets my teeth
on edge."

"Am I to bring them?"

"Three portraits--I could put them in the Salon; I might go in for
portrait-painting. Well, yes!"