and Major Parterson T. Jones he see it ven he iss here.’How motch you vant for zat picture of Le Maréchal?’he say.’Oh,’I say,’I cannot say. Already I have an offer of ten s’ousand francs,’I say,’but I vould not sell it because ze Maréchal himself, he give to me.’'Vell,’say Major Patterson T. Jones,’you lett me teck zat picture vit me ven I go beck to America, and I sell it for you.’'How motch you get for me, eh?“ I ask him.’Oh,’he say,’I get twent’s’ousand francs for you—mebbe more.’'You sure?’I say.’Mais oui!’say Major Patterson T. Jones.’Absolument’—'All right,’I say.’I give to you. If you get twenty s’ousand francs I give you five,’I say. And so he teck my picture and he go avay, and since den,” La Marquise bitterly concluded, “I nevaire hear from him.”
“Ah!” the Countess cried indignantly. “Le scélérat!”
“Mais oui!” the other woman now said passionately. “It is infâme! Zis man have my picture, I have nozzing—Ze lest time Madame Foch is here, she look around, she say,’But vere, my dear, —vere iss ze picture zat Le Maréchal give you? I do not see it,’she say. What can I do?” La Marquise went on in a despairing tone. “I cannot say to her,’I lose it!’I cannot say to her,’I give it avay to an Américain who sell it for me.’I don’t know vat to say. All I can say is,’I leave it, my dear, in Paris vit my son Paul ven I vas zere. He have it, but ze next time zat he come to Mornaye he vill bring it.’But ven she come again, vat story can I tell her zen?” La Marquise demanded. “Ah! Zat scélérat! Zat Patterson T. Jones! If ever I get my fingers on zat gentleman I s’ink he vill remember me!” she said, with a glint in her eye and a grim note in her voice that left no doubt of her intention—“But is it not infâme, monsieur,” she said with a virtuous indignation that was now ludicrous after her naïve exposure of her own avarice and greed—“is it not infâme zat somevun teck avay a picture zat a friend give to you—and promise you motch monnee for it—and zen to hear from him no more? Scélérat! T’ief!” she muttered. “I like to get my hands on him!—But now, monsieur,” she said, turning to him abruptly, with a smile of winning ingratiation, “I meck a leetle speech to you. You are—la Comtesse tells me—a younk journalist—eh?”
“Well, Marquise,” he flushed, and began to blunder out an explanation—“I can’t exactly say—”
“Mais oui!” the Countess swiftly interposed. “He has written many clever articles—pour les grands journaux américains, n’est-ce pas—la tête, vous voyez?” she whispered craftily, bending over the table and nodding
