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glanced at it. It is an admirable piece of work all the same.”
And Guinardon, putting the picture in a good light, went on:
“Now just look at Saint Francis here, the poor man of the Lord, the brother of Jesus. See how his fuliginous body rises heavenward like the smoke from an agreeable sacrifice, like the sacrifice of Abel.”
“Give me the book, Guinardon,” said Sariette, without turning his head; “give me the book.”
The blood suddenly flew to Père Guinardon’s head.
“That’s enough of it,” he shouted, as red as a turkey-cock, the veins standing out on his forehead.
And he dropped the Lucretius into his jacket pocket.
Straightway old Sariette flew at the antiquary, assailed him with sudden fury, and, frail and weakly as he was, butted him back into young Octavie’s arm-chair.
Guinardon, in furious amazement, belched forth the most horrible abuse on the old maniac and gave him a punch that sent him staggering back four paces against the Coronation of the Virgin, by Fra Angelico, which fell down with a crash. Sariette returned to the charge, and tried to drag the book out of the pocket in which it lay hid. This time Père Guinardon would really have floored him had
