elling them about Naudet,
with whom he was well acquainted. He was a dealer, who, for some few
years, had been revolutionising the picture trade. There was nothing of
the old fashion about his style--the greasy coat and keen taste of
Papa Malgras, the watching for the pictures of beginners, bought at ten
francs, to be resold at fifteen, all the little humdrum comedy of
the connoisseur, turning up his nose at a coveted canvas in order to
depreciate it, worshipping painting in his inmost heart, and earning a
meagre living by quickly and prudently turning over his petty capital.
No, no; the famous Naudet had the appearance of a nobleman, with a
fancy-pattern jacket, a diamond pin in his scarf, and patent-leather
boots; he was well pomaded and brushed, and lived in fine style, with
a livery-stable carriage by the month, a stall at the opera, and his
particular table at Bignon's. And he showed himself wherever it was the
correct thing to be seen. For the rest, he was a speculator, a
Stock Exchange gambler, not caring one single rap about art. But he
unfailingly scented success, he guessed what artist ought to be properly
started, not the one who seemed likely to develop the genius of a great
painter, furnishing food for discussion, but the one whose deceptive
talent, set off by a pretended display of audacity, would command a
premium in the market. And that was the way in which he revolutionised
that market, giving the amateur of taste the cold shoulder, and only
treating with the moneyed amateur, who knew nothing about art, but who
bought a picture as he might buy a share at the Stock Exchange, either
from vanity or with the hope that it would rise in value.

At this stage of the conversation Bongrand, very jocular by nature,
and with a good deal of the mummer about him, began to enact the scene.
Enter Naudet in Fagerolles' studio.

'"You've real genius, my dear fellow. Your last picture is sold, then?
For how much?"

'"For five hundred francs."

'"But you must be mad; it was worth twelve hundred. And this one which
you have by you--how much?"

'"Well, my faith, I don't know. Suppose we say twelve hundred?"

'"What are you talking about? Twelve hundred francs! You don't
understand me, then, my boy; it's worth two thousand. I take it at
two thousand. And from this day forward you must work for no one but
myself--for me, Naudet. Good-bye, good-bye, my dear fellow; don't
overwork yourself--your fortune is made. I have t