Quickly as it came, however, it
vanished, for he remembered that he could buy the dish himself. He could
buy it himself and keep it. . . . Yet what could he do with it? Even
so, he could keep it. It could still be his till better days came.
The auctioneer's voice told off the value of the fruitdish--"As an
heirloom, as an antique; as a piece of workmanship impossible of
duplication in these days of no handicraft; as good pure silver, bearing
the head of Louis Quinze--beautiful, marvellous, historic, honourable,"
and Jean Jacques made ready to bid. Then he remembered he had no money--
he who all his life had been able to take a roll of bills from his pocket
as another man took a packet of letters. His glance fell in shame, and
the words died on his lips, even as M. Manotel, the auctioneer, was about
to add another five-dollar bid to the price, which already was standing
at forty dollars.
It was at this moment Jean Jacques heard a woman's voice bidding, then
two women's voices. Looking up he saw that one of the women was Mere
Langlois and the other was Virginie Poucette, who had made the first bid.
For a moment they contended, and then Mere Langlois fell out of the
contest, and Virginie continued it with an ambitious farmer from the next
county, who was about to become a Member of Parliament.
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