papers. There is the parish priest from the country who demands funds
for the restoration of his church, and takes checks by assault with the
brutality of a Peter the Hermit. There is old Schwalbach coming up with
nose in his beard and winking mysteriously.

"Sh! He had found a pearl for monsieur's gallery, an Hobbema from the
collection of the Duc de Mora. But several people are after it. It will
be difficult--"

"I must have it at any price," says the Nabob, hooked by the name of
Mora. "You understand, Schwalbach. I must have this Hobbema. Twenty
thousand francs for you if you secure it."

"I shall do my utmost, M. Jansoulet."

And the old rascal calculates, as he goes away, that the twenty thousand
of the Nabob added to the ten thousand promised him by the duke if he
gets rid of his picture for him, will make a nice little profit for
himself.

While these fortunate ones follow each other, others look on around,
wild with impatience, biting their nails to the quick, for all are come
on the same errand. From the good Jenkins, who opened the advance, to
the masseur Cabassu, who closes it, all draw the Nabob away to some
room apart. But, however far they lead him down this gallery of
reception-rooms, there is always some indiscreet mirror to reflect the
profile of the host and the gestures of his broad back. That back has
eloquence. Now and then it straightens itself up in indignation.
"Oh, no; that is too much." Or again it sinks forward with a comical
resignation. "Well, since it must be so." And always Bompain's fez in