He would remain, henceforward, an
artist. He shrank from the idea of becoming a wholesale manufacturer of
antiques.
Three hundred and fifty thousand francs. If sufficed. Thinking of those
figures, he began to smile with contentment. He smiled--but no more. And
as he continued to muse upon the transaction his look melted,
imperceptibly, into one of reverential awe; there was a solemnity about
that sum, an amplitude, a perfection of outline that reminded him, in a
way, of the proportions of some wonderful old Doric temple. The labour
of a lifetime would not have enabled him to collect so much had he
tried to sell bronzes of his own workmanship. A bust or statue by Count
Caloveglia--it would command a certain small price, no doubt; but what
was the reputation, the market value, of the most eminent modern artist
as compared with that nameless but consummate craftsman of Locri?
The Count saw things in their true perspective. His mental attitude
towards Sir Herbert Street and his American employer was not tinged
with the faintest cloud of disrespect; for van Koppen, indeed, he
cherished a liking which bordered on affection.
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