He knew that Valmond understood whereof he spoke.

It was as if an artist saw a young genius use a brush on canvas for a moment; a swordsman watch an unknown master of the sword.

It was not so much the immediate act, as the divination, the rapport, the spirit behind the act, which could only come from the soul of the real thing.
"I thank you, monsieur; I thank you with all my heart," the avocat said.
"It is the true word you have spoken." Here a lad came running to fetch the Little Chemist, and Medallion and he departed, but not without the auctioneer having pressed Valmond's hand warmly, for he was quick of emotion, and, like the avocat, he recognised, as he thought, the true word behind the dramatic trappings.
Monsieur Garon and Valmond talked on, eager, responsive, Valmond lost in the discussion of Napoleon, Garon in the man before him.

By pregnant allusions, by a map drawn hastily on the ground here, and an explosion of secret history there, did Valmond win to a sort of worship this fine little Napoleonic scholar, who had devoured every book on his hero which had come in his way since boyhood.

Student as he was, he had met a man whose knowledge of the Napoleonic life was vastly more intricate, searching and vital than his own.