had found a man after his own heart. He knew that Valmond understood
whereof he spoke. It was as if an artist saw a young genius use a brush
on canvas for a moment; a swordsman watch an unknown master of the sword.
It was not so much the immediate act, as the divination, the rapport, the
spirit behind the act, which could only come from the soul of the real
thing.

"I thank you, monsieur; I thank you with all my heart," the avocat said.
"It is the true word you have spoken."

Here a lad came running to fetch the Little Chemist, and Medallion and he
departed, but not without the auctioneer having pressed Valmond's hand
warmly, for he was quick of emotion, and, like the avocat, he recognised,
as he thought, the true word behind the dramatic trappings.

Monsieur Garon and Valmond talked on, eager, responsive, Valmond lost in
the discussion of Napoleon, Garon in the man before him. By pregnant
allusions, by a map drawn hastily on the ground here, and an explosion of
secret history there, did Valmond win to a sort of worship this fine
little Napoleonic scholar, who had devoured every book on his hero which
had come in his way since boyhood. Student as he was, he had met a man
whose knowledge of the Napoleonic life was vastly more intricate,
searching and vital than his own. He, Monsieur Garon, spoke as from a
book or out of a library, but this man as from the Invalides, or, since
that is anachronistic, from the lonely rock of St. Helena. A private
saying of Napoleon's, a word from his letters and biography, a phrase out
of his speeches to his soldiers, sent tears to the avocat's eyes, and for
a moment transformed Valmond.

While they talked, the Cure and the young Seigneur listened, and there