Francis emerged somewhat too abruptly from his character as Le Beau Ténébreux, for he was feeling the wines stirring within him. When Amalie, daring greatly, asked him if it were true that there were many bears in Canada, he replied that when he was a boy a child had been eaten by a bear within three miles of Blairlogie. That was true, but not content, he went on to say that the bear had later been seen, walking on its hind legs, wearing the child’s tuque and carrying its satchel of books, making its way toward Carlyle Rural. Even Amalie refused to believe him.

“My dear Amalie, the English wit tends always toward some fantaisie,” said the Countess with grandmotherly solemnity. And then Prince Max took over again, to tell about a boar-hunt he had once enjoyed in the company of several highly placed relatives.

“What does Prince Max do now?” Francis asked Ruth Nibsmith, after dinner.

“Travels for a wine company that has headquarters in London,” she whispered. “Lives on what he makes, which is pretty good, but not of course a fortune. He’s a real aristocrat, a shameless, joyful survivor. Hitler will never down Max. Did you notice the little Wittelsbach thingummy on the door of his car? Max is the real goods, but not tongue-tied, like our English hogen-mogens.”

Christmas morning. Mass had been heard, breakfast had been eaten, and without any words having been spoken about it—though Prince Max talked without a stop about other things—Saraceni led the way to the shell-grotto workroom, and the Countess, the Prince, and Francis followed. The panels on which Saraceni had been working all through the autumn were propped up on tables and walls and against the pillars of lapis lazuli.

Slowly the Prince made a tour of inspection.

“Marvellous,” he said; “really, Tancred, you are greater than your reputation. How you have transformed these dismal daubs! I would never have believed it if I did not have the evidence before me. And you say it is truly undetectable?”

“A determined critic, armed with various testing acids, and special rays to pick up inevitable discrepancies in the brush-work, could probably see what was done—but I doubt if even then he would be sure. But as I have been telling our friend Corniche every day, our task is to do our work so well that suspicion will not be aroused, and prying investigators will not come with their rays and begin to arouse suspicions. As you see, the pictures are rather dirty. And the dirt on them is their very own. No Augsburg dirt where one might expect Nürnberg dirt. Doubtless they will be given a good cleaning before they are hung in the great gallery.”

“Perhaps you will be called in to supervise the cleaning. That would be rather good, wouldn’t it?”

“I should certainly enjoy it.”

“You know, some of these are so good I almost covet them for myself. You have really made it seem as if some uncommonly clever, and quite unknown and unrecognized, portraitists of authentic German style had been at work among the rich merchants of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries in these parts. The one thing you have not been able to disguise is your talent, Meister.”

“You are very kind.”

“Look at this one. The Fuggers’ jester. Unquestionably this is one of the Fools whom we know the Fuggers always kept in their entourage after they became Counts, but which one? Do you think it could be Drollig Hansel, the favourite of Count Hans? Look at him. What a face!”

“Poor wretch,” said the Countess; “to be born a dwarf and kept as a Fool. Still, I suppose it was better than being a dwarf whom nobody kept.”

“This one will certainly delight our friends when they see it,” said Prince Max.

“I am sorry, but that one is not included with the others,” said Saraceni.

“Not included! But it’s the pick of the lot! Why is it not included!”

“Because it is not a touched-up genuine picture. It is wholly and simply a fabrication, made by our young friend Corniche. I have been teaching him the technique of this sort of painting, and as an exercise I left him to produce something solely on his own responsibility, to show how well he had mastered the art.”

“But it is superb!”

“Yes. A superb fake.”

“Well—but could anybody spot it?”

“Not without a scientific examination. The panel is old and quite genuine, and it is covered in leather as old as itself. The colours are correct, made in the true manner. The technique is impeccable, except that it is rather too good for a wholly unknown painter. And this ingenious scoundrel Corniche has even seen that the craquelure incorporates some authentic dust. I don’t suppose one observer in a thousand would have any doubt about it.”

“Oh, but Meister—that observer would surely spot the old Fugger Firmenzeichen, the pitchfork and circle, that can just barely be perceived in the upper left-hand corner. He would pride himself on having spotted it and guessed what it is, although it is almost obscured.”

“Yes. But it is a fake, my dear Max.”

“Perhaps in the substance. Certainly not in the spirit. Consider, Meister: this is not imitating any known painter’s work—that would be a fake, of course. No, this is simply a little picture in a sixteenth-century manner. Now what makes it different from these others?”

“Only the fact that it has been done in the past month.”

“Oh, that is almost Lutheran pernickety morality! That is an unworthy servitude to chronology. Cousin, what do you say? Isn’t it a little gem?”

“I say it speaks of the dull, inescapable misery of being a dwarf, of having to make oneself ridiculous in order to be tolerated, of feeling that God has not used you well. If it makes me feel these things so strongly, it is certainly a picture of unusual quality. I should like to see it make the journey with the others.”

“Of course, cousin. Just the sort of good sense I should expect from you. Come on, Tancred, relent.”

“If you say so. The greatest risk is yours.”

“Let me worry about the risk. Is everything ready for the journey, cousin?”

“The six big hogsheads are in the old granary.”

“Then let us get to work at once.”

Francis, Max, the Countess, and Saraceni spent the next three hours wrapping the panels—eighteen of them, including the picture of the jester—in oiled paper, after which they were sewn into packages of oiled silk and the seams caulked with tar Saraceni heated on the brazier. To the silken packages a number of small lead weights were attached. Then they carried them to the old granary, where there were no workmen because of the holiday, and there they removed the tops from the six hogsheads, and carefully sank the packages in the white wine they contained—fifty-two gallons to a barrel. When Prince Max tapped the last top back into place, eighteen pictures had been drowned, snug and dry in their casings, and were ready to travel to England, to the warehouses of a highly respected London wine-merchant. It was a good morning’s work, and even the Countess relaxed some of her usual reserve, and invited the conspirators to take Madeira with her in her private room, where Francis had never been before.

“I feel a splendid glow of achievement,” said Prince Max, sniffing at his glass. “I am rejoicing in the breadth and ingenuity of our cleverness. I am wondering if I shall be able to resist pinching the little Fugger Jester for myself. But no—that would be unprofessional. He must go with the others. You know, it seems to me to be damn funny that our friend Francis has not said a word—not a single word—about what we have done with his picture.”

“I had a good reason for keeping quiet,” said Francis. “But I would certainly like to know what is going on, if that is permissible. The Meister has quelled me so completely during the past four months that I don’t feel that I have any right to ask questions. I suppose that is what apprenticeship means. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. But I’d like to know a little, if I may.”