‘To you, Monsieur Jean Varin,’ the shopkeeper was saying, ‘I’ll let it go for 1,000. Cost, in other words. To anyone else, it would be 1,500. My artist customers mean a lot to me. I like to offer them a special price. Oh yes, they all come to me you know, Monsieur Jean Varin … Yesterday, for example, Monsieur Busnach3 bought an antique goblet from me … and the other day … you see those candlesticks over there, aren’t they lovely? Sold a pair like them to Monsieur Alexandre Dumas4 … and I mean … that piece you’ve got there … if Monsieur Zola5 saw that, it’d be gone in five minutes, I can assure you, Monsieur Varin …’

The writer hesitated, undecided. He was obviously attracted to the figure but not the price. Had he been standing quite alone in the middle of a desert, he could not have been more oblivious of the interest he was arousing. Trembling, she went in. Young, handsome, elegant or not, it was nevertheless Jean Varin himself and on Jean Varin alone she now fixed a bold gaze. Still struggling with himself, he finally replaced the figure on the table.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s too expensive.’

The merchant redoubled his efforts.

‘Too expensive, Monsieur Jean Varin? But you know it’s worth two thousand if it’s worth a franc!’

Sadly, as he continued to gaze into the enamelled eyes of the figure, the man of letters replied, ‘I’m sure it is. But it’s too expensive for me.’

At this, wildly daring, she stepped forward and said: ‘Supposing I were to ask. What would it be to me?’

Surprised, the merchant replied: ‘Fifteen hundred, Madame.’

‘I’ll take it.’

The writer, who until then had been totally unaware of her presence, turned round quickly and at first somewhat coldly looked her up and down. Then he cast more of a connoisseur’s eye over her. She was charming, vibrant and suddenly lit up by the flame which had till this second been dormant within her. After all, a woman who snaps up a curio at 1,500 is not exactly run-of-the-mill.

With exquisite delicacy in her movement, she turned to face him now and said in a trembling voice, ‘I’m so sorry, Monsieur. I’m afraid I rather rushed in. Perhaps you had not yet decided.’

He bowed. ‘I had indeed, Madame.’

In a voice shaking with emotion she said: ‘If you should ever change your mind, either today or at some later time, it shall be yours. I bought it solely because you liked it.’

Visibly flattered, he smiled. ‘But how on earth do you know who I am?’ he inquired. She listed his works and expressed with some eloquence her admiration of them. Leaning his elbows on a piece of furniture he settled down to a conversation, weighing her up all the while with his penetrating gaze.