f it, could not help smiling
therefore when he saw him take his stand before another picture--a
frightful Virgin, badly copied from some eighteenth-century canvas--and
exclaim: "Dear me! that's not at all bad! I've a friend, I remember, who
asked me to buy him some old paintings. I say, Victorine, now that Donna
Serafina and the Cardinal are left alone do you think they would like to
rid themselves of a few valueless pictures?"

The servant raised her arms as if to say that if it depended on her,
everything might be carried away. Then she replied: "Not to a dealer,
sir, on account of the nasty rumours which would at once spread about,
but I'm sure they would be happy to please a friend. The house costs a
lot to keep up, and money would be welcome."

Pierre then vainly endeavoured to persuade Narcisse to stay and sup with
him, but the young man gave his word of honour that he was expected
elsewhere and was even late. And thereupon he ran off, after pressing the
priest's hands and affectionately wishing him a good journey.

Eight o'clock was striking, and Pierre seated himself at the little
table, Victorine remaining to serve him after dismissing Giacomo, who had
brought the supper things upstairs in a basket. "The people here make me
wild," said the worthy woman after the other had gone, "they are so slow.
And besides, it's a pleasure for me to serve you your last meal, Monsieur
l'Abbe. I've had a little French dinner cooked for you, a _sole au
gratin_ and a roast fowl."

Pierre was touched by this attention, and pleased to have the company of
a compatriot whilst he partook of his final meal amidst the deep silence
of the old, black, deserted mansion. The buxom figure of Victorine was
still instinct with mourning, with grief for the loss of her dear
Contessina, but her daily toil was already setting her erect again,
restoring her quick activity; and she spoke almost cheerfully whilst
passing plates and dishes to Pierre. "And to think Monsieur l'Abbe," said
she, "that you'll be in Paris on the morning of the day after to-morrow!
As for me, you know, it seems as if I only left Auneau yesterday. Ah!
what fine soil there is there; rich soil yellow like gold, not like their
poor stuff here which smells of sulphur! And the pretty fresh willows
beside our stream, too, and the little wood so full of moss! They've no
moss here, their trees look like tin under that stupid sun of theirs
which burns up the grass. _Mon Dieu_! in t