Louis-Philippe and the galleries of Versailles.

The pictures, magnificently framed, each bore labels on which was read
in black letters on a gold ground:

Rubens
Dance of fauns and nymphs

Rembrandt
Interior of a dissecting room. The physician van Tromp
instructing his pupils.

In all, there were one hundred and fifty pictures, varnished and
dusted. Some were covered with green baize curtains which were not
undrawn in presence of young ladies.

Pierre Grassou stood with arms pendent, gaping mouth, and no word upon
his lips as he recognized half his own pictures in these works of art.
He was Rubens, he was Rembrandt, Mieris, Metzu, Paul Potter, Gerard
Douw! He was twenty great masters all by himself.

"What is the matter? You've turned pale!"

"Daughter, a glass of water! quick!" cried Madame Vervelle. The
painter took pere Vervelle by the button of his coat and led him to a
corner on pretence of looking at a Murillo. Spanish pictures were then
the rage.

"You bought your pictures from Elie Magus?"