“How can you have allowed yourself to be robbed of such a treasure?” he asked severely of Monsieur Sariette.
“How can I have allowed myself to be robbed of such a treasure?” repeated the unhappy librarian. “Monsieur, if you opened my breast, you would find that question engraved upon my heart.”
Unmoved by this powerful utterance, Monsieur d’Esparvieu continued with pent-up fury:
“And you have discovered no single sign that would put you on the track of the thief, Monsieur Sariette? You have no suspicion, not the faintest idea, of the way these things have come to pass? You have seen nothing, heard nothing, noticed nothing, learnt nothing? You must grant this is unbelievable. Think, Monsieur Sariette, think of the possible consequences of this unheard-of theft, committed under your eyes. A document of inestimable value in the history of the human mind disappears. Who has stolen it? Why has it been stolen? Who will gain by it? Those who have got possession of it doubtless know that they will be unable to dispose of it in France. They will go and sell it in America or Germany. Germany is greedy for such literary monuments. Should the correspondence of Gassendi with Gabriel Naudé go over to Berlin, if it is published there by German savants, what a disaster, nay, what a scandal! Monsieur Sariette, have you not thought of that? …”
Beneath the stroke of an accusation all the more cruel in that he brought it against himself, Monsieur Sariette stood stupefied, and was silent. And Monsieur d’Esparvieu continued to overwhelm him with bitter reproaches.
“And you make no effort. You devise nothing to find these inestimable treasures. Make enquiries, bestir yourself, Monsieur Sariette; use your wits. It is well worth while.”
And Monsieur d’Esparvieu went out, throwing an icy glance at his librarian.
Monsieur Sariette sought the lost books and manuscripts in every spot where he had already sought them a hundred times, and where they could not possibly be. He even looked in the coke-box and under the leather seat of his armchair. When midday struck he mechanically went downstairs. At the foot of the stairs he met his old pupil Maurice, with whom he exchanged a bow. But he only saw men and things as through a mist.
The brokenhearted curator had already reached the hall when Maurice called him back.
“Monsieur Sariette, while I think of it, do have the books removed that are choking up my garden-house.”
“What books, Maurice?”
“I could not tell you, Monsieur Sariette, but there are some in Hebrew, all worm-eaten, with a whole heap of old papers. They are in my way. You can’t turn round in the passage.”
“Who took them there?”
“I’m bothered if I know.”
And the young man rushed off to the dining-room, the luncheon gong having sounded quite a minute ago.
Monsieur Sariette tore away to the summerhouse. Maurice had spoken the truth. About a hundred volumes were there, on tables, on chairs, even on the floor. When he saw them he was divided betwixt joy and fear, filled with amazement and anxiety. Happy in the finding of his lost treasure, dreading to lose it again, and completely overwhelmed with astonishment, the man of books alternately babbled like an infant and uttered the hoarse cries of a maniac. He recognised his Hebrew Bibles, his ancient Talmuds, his very old manuscript of Flavius Josephus, his portfolios of Gassendi’s letters to Gabriel Naudé, and his richest jewel of all, to wit, Lucretius adorned with the arms of the Grand Prior of France, and with notes in Voltaire’s own hand. He laughed, he cried, he kissed the morocco, the calf, the parchment, and vellum, even the wooden boards studded with nails.
As fast as Hippolyte, the manservant, returned with an armful to the library, Monsieur Sariette, with a trembling hand, restored them piously to their places.
VII
Of a somewhat lively interest, whereof the moral will, I hope, appeal greatly to my readers, since it can be expressed by this sorrowful query: “Thought, whither dost thou lead me?” for it is a universally admitted truth that it is unhealthy to think and that true wisdom lies in not thinking at all.
All the books were now once more assembled in the pious keeping of Monsieur Sariette. But this happy reunion was not destined to last. The following night twenty volumes left their places, among them the Lucretius of Prior de Vendôme. Within a week the old Hebrew and Greek texts had all returned to the summerhouse, and every night during the ensuing month they left their shelves and secretly went on the same path. Others betook themselves no one knew whither.
On hearing of these mysterious occurrences, Monsieur René d’Esparvieu merely remarked with frigidity to his librarian:
“My poor Sariette, all this is very queer, very queer indeed.”
And when Monsieur Sariette tentatively advised him to lodge a formal complaint or to inform the Commissaire de Police, Monsieur d’Esparvieu cried out upon him:
“What are you suggesting, Monsieur Sariette? Divulge domestic secrets, make a scandal! You cannot mean it. I have enemies, and I am proud of it. I think I have deserved them. What I might complain about is that I am wounded in the house of my friend, attacked with unheard-of violence, by fervent loyalists, who, I grant you, are good Catholics, but exceedingly bad Christians. … In a word, I am watched, spied upon, shadowed, and you suggest, Monsieur Sariette, that I should make a present of this comic-opera mystery, this burlesque adventure, this story in which we both cut somewhat pitiable figures, to a set of spiteful journalists? Do you wish to cover me with ridicule?”
The result of the colloquy was that the two gentlemen agreed to change all the locks in the library. Estimates were asked for and
