We finished and waited for our coffee.
After dinner we brought out the painting and the gypsy looked at it and rolled his eyes.
“This is no good. It is cracked, the figures are not finished, I don't collect trash.”
“Ten thousand francs,” said Rif.
“Nonsense.”
“Ten thousand francs down … and ten thousand francs a month until we have a hundred thousand francs.”
The gypsy groaned. “Twenty thousand francs and I'm sure it was stolen.”
“I have bill of sale and will write out a document to return the money if it is stolen.”
“Where it is from?”
Rif explained, and gave names, and the gypsy nodded.
“You understand I have not so much here on me. Bring it back Saturday night. Show it to no one. We shall shake hands on it like Americans, in that picture Scarface…”
We decided to tell our good luck to Miss Moffet…She was giving a little party in the rock garden behind her house. She had a house near the Place du Tertre but lived at the Ritz, keeping the house only to give parties in. I am speaking, of course, of the days when Americans did things like that.
She was very happy to see us, as the party was very dull. Two Congressmen were visiting her, and they spent most of their time inspecting the famous sewers and the stage shows. At first they had done more sewers than shows, but now they were catching up on the shows. The sewers were neglected, but then the Paris sewers always have been.
We told her our good luck and showed her the painting.
“You must sell it to me,” she said. “This is great art. It belongs in Kansas.”
“Why?” I asked.
“You've heard of Kansas.”
We let it go at that, and joined the party which was great fun. Seventeen Americans were saying they would never go back home. America was dull, shallow, stupid, and lacking in culture. Rif offered to fight them one at a time to defend the nation he loved.
“This is dreadful,” he said. “How can you knock this America, a great nation? They invent everything.”
“Their mothers are all Polish,” I said. “That explains it all.”
“Malgré tout! Defend your wonderful country…”
“Not with these bums,” I said. “Nobody wants them back.”
Rif was hurt. He ate his way around a sandwich, poured himself some brandy, and groaned. “It is lack of art. I sell Miss Moffet the great newly discovered Daumier!”
“How nice,” said Miss Moffet. “I'll get my check book.”
Rif said, “But first we must tell the gypsy he can't have it. We owe him for dinner … we pay it … then we take your check.”
“I trust you,” said Miss Moffet.
“No … I am honest … I will first settle with the gypsy.”
We left it at that and watched an American dancer who turned out to be a pretty good tap dancer.
The next morning we slept late, as all rich men do, and the beds were hard and we planned deeper wider beds … and more plumbing. We rose, had a few eye-opening apéritifs and dressed.
There was a knock on the door and we opened it and there stood our torrid gypsy, and two French cops known as flics that had that low Ile de la Cité look.
Rif said, “We are on our way to Rumpelmayer's to join the haut monde for breakfast. Will you join us?”
The gypsy shook his head and held out a pound of French civil papers with seals and stamps, and very small print.
“I have this morning bought a small villa at Nice for eighty thousand francs … the place isn't much, but I bought it furnished.”
“What is this?” asked Rif.
“Your friend had given the lady the villa … and so he could not sell you anything from it. I own that Daumier. I have just bought the place from the lady.”
“You mean …?”
“I will pay you back what you bought … three hundred francs. Here it is, now hand over my painting. The flics are in a hurry to get to church in time for Mass.”
“A bas les bourgeois! La ligne!” screamed Rif.
“My painting, please,” said the gypsy. “I want to have it cleaned and hung in my house.”
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