ankly," said the soldier, laughing, "on your honor, what
should you say those pictures were worth? You've made an easy haul out
of your uncle! and right enough, too,--uncles are made to be pillaged.
Nature deprived me of uncles, but damn it, if I'd had any I should have
shown them no mercy."

"Did you know, monsieur," said Flore to Rouget, "what _your_ pictures
were worth? How much did you say, Monsieur Joseph?"

"Well," answered the painter, who had grown as red as a beetroot,--"the
pictures are certainly worth something."

"They say you estimated them to Monsieur Hochon at one hundred and fifty
thousand francs," said Flore; "is that true?"

"Yes," said the painter, with childlike honesty.

"And did you intend," said Flore to the old man, "to give a hundred and
fifty thousand francs to your nephew?"

"Never, never!" cried Jean-Jacques, on whom Flore had fixed her eye.

"There is one way to settle all this," said the painter, "and that is to
return them to you, uncle."

"No, no, keep them," said the old man.

"I shall send them back to you," said Joseph, wounded by the offensive
silence of Max and Flore. "There is something in my brushes which will
make my fortune, without owing anything to any one, even an uncle. My
respects to you, mademoiselle; good-day, monsieur--"

And Joseph crossed the square in a state of irritation which artists
can imagine. The entire Hochon family were in the salon. When they saw
Joseph gesticulating and talking to himself, they asked him what was the
matter. The painter, who was as open as the day, related before Baruch
and Francois the scene that had just taken place; and which, two hours
later, thanks to the two young men, was the talk of the whole
town, embroidered with various circumstances that were more or less
ridiculous. Some persons insisted that the painter was maltreated by
Max; others that he had misbehaved to Flore, and that Max had turned him
out of doors.

"What a child your son is!" said Hochon to Madame Bridau; "the booby is
the dupe of a scene which they have been keeping back for the last day
of his visit. Max and the Rabouilleuse have known the value of those
pictures for the last two weeks,--ever since he had the folly to tell
it before my grandsons, who never rested till they had blurted it out
to all the world. Your artist had better have taken himself off without
taking leave."

"My son has done right to return the pictures if they are really so
valuabl