onger spoke but examined the painting with the care of a
connoisseur, an expert, whose keen glance decides the question of
authenticity, and appraises commercial value. And the most extraordinary
delight appeared upon the young man's fair, rapturous face, whilst his
fingers began to quiver. "But it's a Botticelli, it's a Botticelli! There
can be no doubt about it," he exclaimed. "Just look at the hands, and
look at the folds of the drapery! And the colour of the hair, and the
technique, the flow of the whole composition. A Botticelli, ah! _mon
Dieu_, a Botticelli."

He became quite faint, overflowing with increasing admiration as he
penetrated more and more deeply into the subject, at once so simple and
so poignant. Was it not acutely modern? The artist had foreseen our
pain-fraught century, our anxiety in presence of the invisible, our
distress at being unable to cross the portal of mystery which was for
ever closed. And what an eternal symbol of the world's wretchedness was
that woman, whose face one could not see, and who sobbed so distractedly
without it being possible for one to wipe away her tears. Yes, a
Botticelli, unknown, uncatalogued, what a discovery! Then he paused to
inquire of Pierre: "Did you know it was a Botticelli?"

"Oh no! I spoke to Don Vigilio about it one day, but he seemed to think
it of no account. And Victorine, when I spoke to her, replied that all
those old things only served to harbour dust."

Narcisse protested, quite stupefied: "What! they have a Botticelli here
and don't know it! Ah! how well I recognise in that the Roman princes
who, unless their masterpieces have been labelled, are for the most part
utterly at sea among them! No doubt this one has suffered a little, but a
simple cleaning would make a marvel, a famous picture of it, for which a
museum would at least give--"

He abruptly stopped, completing his sentence with a wave of the hand and
not mentioning the figure which was on his lips. And then, as Victorine
came in followed by Giacomo to lay the little table for Pierre's supper,
he turned his back upon the Botticelli and said no more about it. The
young priest's attention was aroused, however, and he could well divine
what was passing in the other's mind. Under that make-believe Florentine,
all angelicalness, there was an experienced business man, who well knew
how to look after his pecuniary interests and was even reported to be
somewhat avaricious. Pierre, who was aware o