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 moter, who, while contemplating it with respect, maintained a diplomatic silence.

“I have something better still in here,” said the antiquary, and he produced from his inner shop—where it had been lying among the and umbrellas—a real demon of a sword, adorned with  a genuine royal relic. It was the sword of as worn by an actor at the Odéon when Agnès de Méranie was being performed in 1846. Guinardon held it point downwards, as though it were a cross, clasping his hands piously on the He looked as loyal as the sword itself.

“Have her for your exhibition,” said he. “The damsel is well worth it. Bouvines is her name.”

“If I find a buyer for it,” said Monsieur Le Truc de Ruffec, twirling his enormous moustachios, “I suppose you will allow me a little commission?”

Some days later, Père Guinardon was mysteriously displaying a picture to the Comte Desmaisons and Monsieur Blancmesnil. It was a newly discovered work of El Greco, an amazingly fine example of the Master’s later style. It represented a Saint Francis of Assisi standing erect upon Mont Alverno. He was mounting heavenward like a column of smoke, and was plunging into the regions of the clouds a monstrously narrow head that the distance rendered smaller still. In fine it was a real, very real, nay, too real El Greco. The two collectors