moment. As a matter of fact, the four friends were at that moment gathered
in council, and under the domination of a ferocious appetite were
discussing the grave question of bread and meat. It was Sunday, the last
day of the month. Fatal day, sinister of date!

The entrance of Medicis was accordingly greeted with a joyous chorus, for
they knew that the Jew was too avaricious of his time to waste it in mere
visits of civility; accordingly his presence always announced that he was
open to a bargain.

"Good evening, gentlemen," said the Jew; "how are you?"

"Colline," said Rodolphe from where he lay upon the bed, sunk in the
delights of maintaining a horizontal line, "practise the duties of
hospitality and offer our guest a chair; a guest is sacred. I salute you,
Abraham," added the poet.

Colline drew forward a chair which had about as much elasticity as a piece
of bronze and offered it to the Jew, Medicis let himself fall into the
chair, and started to complain of its hardness, when he remembered that he
himself had once traded it off to Colline in exchange for a profession of
faith which he afterward sold to a deputy. As he sat down the pockets of
the Jew gave forth a silvery sound, and this melodious symphony threw the
four bohemians into a reverie that was full of sweetness.

"Now," said Rodolphe, in a low tone, to Marcel, "let us hear the song. The
accompaniment sounds all right."

"Monsieur Marcel," said Medicis. "I have simply come to make your fortune.
That is to say, I have come to offer you a superb opportunity to enter
into the world of art. Art, as you very well know, Monsieur Marcel, is an
arid road, in which glory is the oasis."

"Father Medicis," said Marcel, who was on coals of impatience, "in the
name of fifty per cent, your revered patron saint, be brief."

"Here is the offer," rejoined Medicis. "A wealthy amateur, who is
collecting a picture-gallery destined to make the tour of Europe, has
commissioned me to procure for him a series of remarkable works. I have
come to give you a chance to be included in this collection. In one word,
I have come to purchase your 'Passage of the Red Sea.'"

"Money down?" asked Marcel.

"Money down," answered the Jew, sounding forth the full orchestra of his
pockets.

"Go on, Medicis," said Marcel, pointing to his painting. "I wish to leave
to you the honor of fixing for yourself the price of that work of art
which is priceless."

The Jew laid Upon the table