The _concierge_ nodded and rubbed her hands.

"Aha! M'sieur," said she, "'tis the best painting in the chateau, as
folks tell me. M'sieur is a connoisseur."

"But do you know whose portrait it is?"

"To be sure I do, M'sieur. It's the portrait of the last Marquise--the
one who was guillotined, poor soul, with her husband, in--let me
see--in 1793!"

"What an exquisite creature! Look, Josephine, did you ever see anything
so beautiful?"

"Beautiful!" repeated the grisette, with a sidelong glance at one of the
mirrors. "Beautiful, with such a coiffure and such a bodice! _Ciel!_ how
tastes differ!"

"But her face, Josephine!"

"What of her face? I'm sure it's plain enough."

"Plain! Good heavens! what..."

But it was not worth while to argue upon it. I pulled out one of the old
chairs, and so climbed near enough to dust the surface of the painting
with my handkerchief.

"I wish I could buy it!" I exclaimed.