That evening Père Guinardon had taken some specially valuable books out of the kingwood cabinet to show to a distinguished bibliophile, Monsieur Victor Meyer, and after the latter’s departure he had dropped off to sleep without putting them back in their places. Books had an attraction for Monsieur Sariette, and seeing these particular volumes on the marble top of the cabinet, he began to examine them with interest. The first one he looked at was La Pucelle, in morocco, with the English continuation. Doubtless it pained his patriotic and Christian heart to admire its text and illustrations, but a good copy was always virtuous and pure in his sight. Continuing to chat very affectionately with Guinardon, he picked up, one by one, the books which the antiquary had, for one reason or another—binding, illustrations, distinguished ownership, or scarcity—added to his stock.
Suddenly a glorious shout of joy and love broke from his lips. He had discovered the Lucretius of the Prior de Vendôme, his Lucretius, and he was clasping it to his bosom.
“Once again I behold you,” he sighed, as he pressed it to his lips.
At first Père Guinardon could not quite make out what his old friend was talking about; but when the latter declared to him that the volume was from the d’Esparvieu collection, that it belonged to him, Sariette, and that he was going to take it away without further ado, the antiquary completely woke up, got on his legs, declared emphatically that the book belonged to him, Guinardon, by right of true and lawful purchase, and that he would not part with it unless he got five thousand francs for it cash down.
“You don’t take in what I am telling you,” answered Sariette. “The book belongs to the d’Esparvieu library; I must restore it to its place.”
“Pas de ça, Lisette,”—hummed Guinardon.
“The book belongs to me, I tell you!”
“You are crazy, my good Sariette!”
And noticing that, as a matter of fact, the librarian had a wandering look in his eye, he took the book from him, and tried to change the conversation.
“Have you seen, Sariette, that the rascals are going to rip up the Palais Mazarin, and cover up the very heart and centre of the Old Town, the finest and most venerable place in the whole of Paris, with the deuce knows what works of art of theirs? They are worse than the Vandals, for the Vandals, although they destroyed the buildings of antiquity, did not replace them with hideous and disgusting erections and atrocious bridges like the Pont d’Alexandre. And your poor Rue Garancière, Sariette, has fallen a prey to the barbarians. What have they done with the pretty bronze mask of the Palace fountain?”
Monsieur Sariette never listened to a word of all this.
“Guinardon, you have not understood me. Now listen. This book belongs to the d’Esparvieu library. It was taken away, how or by whom I know not. Dreadful and mysterious things went on in that library. But, anyhow, the book was stolen. I need scarcely appeal to your sentiments of scrupulous probity, my dear friend. You would not like to be regarded as the receiver of stolen goods. Give me the book. I will return it to Monsieur d’Esparvieu, who will duly requite you; of that you may be sure. Rely on his generosity, and you will be acting like the downright good fellow that you are.”
The antiquary smiled a bitter smile.
“Catch me relying on the generosity of that old curmudgeon of a d’Esparvieu. Why, he’d skin a flea to get its coat. Look at me, Sariette, old boy, and tell me if I look like a dunderhead. You know perfectly well that d’Esparvieu refused to give fifty francs in a secondhand shop for a portrait of Alexandre d’Esparvieu, the founder of the family, by Hersent, and that consequently the founder of the family has had to remain on the Boulevard Montparnasse, propped against a Jew hawker’s stall, just opposite the cemetery, where all the dogs of the neighbourhood come and make water on him. Catch me trusting to Monsieur d’Esparvieu’s liberality! You’ve got some bright ideas in your head, you have!”
“Very well, Guinardon, I myself will undertake to pay you any indemnity that a board of arbitrators may fix upon. Do you hear?”
“Now don’t go and do the handsome for people who won’t give you so much as a thank-you. This man, d’Esparvieu, has taken your knowledge, your energies, your whole life for a salary that even a valet wouldn’t accept. So leave that idea alone. In any case it is too late. The book is sold.”
“Sold? To whom?” asked Sariette in agonized tones.
“What does that matter? You’ll never see it again. You’ll hear no more about it; it’s off to America.”
“To America! The Lucretius with the arms of Philippe de Vendôme and marginalia in Voltaire’s own hand! My Lucretius off to America!”
Père Guinardon began to laugh.
“My dear Sariette, you remind me of the Chevalier des Grieux when he learns that his darling mistress is to be transported to the Mississippi. ‘My dear mistress going to the Mississippi!’ says he.”
“No! no!” answered Sariette, very pale, “this book shall not go to America. It shall return, as it ought, to the d’Esparvieu library. Let me have it, Guinardon.”
The antiquary made a second attempt to put an end to an interview that now looked as if it might take an ugly turn.
“My good Sariette, you haven’t told me what you think of my Greco. You never so much as glanced at it. It is an admirable piece of work all the same.”
And Guinardon, putting the picture in a good light, went on:
“Now just look at Saint Francis here, the poor man of the Lord, the brother of Jesus. See how his fuliginous body rises heavenward like the smoke from an agreeable sacrifice, like the sacrifice of Abel.”
“Give me the book, Guinardon,” said Sariette, without
