I.

24th December, 1849.

I PUT on my slippers and dressing gown. I wiped away a tear which the wind on the quay had brought into my eyes. A bright fire was blazing in my study, crystals of ice like fern-leaves made a flowery screen on my window panes, and hid from me the Seine, its bridges, and the Louvre of the Valois.

Having drawn my arm-chair and writing-table closer to the fire, I sat down in the place which Hamilcar had condescended to leave to me. Hamilcar was curled up on a cushion in front of the fire with his nose resting on his paws. His deep, soft fur rose and fell with his regular breathing. At my approach the agate eyes peeped furtively through his half- raised eyelids, but he shut them again almost immediately, thinking"It's nobody, it's only you."

"Hamilcar," said I, stretching out my legs, "Hamilcar, somnolent prince and nocturnal guardian of the city of books! Like the divine cat which, in the night of the great battle, fought the infidels in Heliopolis, thou defendest from the vile race of gnawing creatures the books collected by the old scholar at the cost of a moderate amount of money and indefatigable zeal. Sleep, Hamilcar, sleep the

soft sleep of a sultana in this library which thy warlike virtues protect, for in thy person thou combinest the formidable aspect of a Tartar warrior, and the heavy grace of an eastern woman. Heroic and voluptuous Hamilcar, sleep while awaiting the hour when the mice will begin to dance before the Acta Sanctorum of the learned disciples of Bollandus."

The beginning of this discourse was pleasing to Hamilcar, who purred an accompaniment like the singing of a kettle. But as my voice grew louder, Hamilcar, by lowering his ears and wrinkling the zebra-like skin of his forehead, made me aware that it was improper to declaim in this way.

"This bookworm," thought Hamilcar, "apparently speaks for speaking's sake, whereas our housekeeper never utters words which are not full of meaning and significance; for either they announce a meal or promise a whipping. It is possible to understand what she says. But this old man fills the air with sounds that mean nothing."

These were Hamilcar's thoughts. Leaving him to his meditations, I opened a book which interested me, for it was a catalogue of manuscripts. I know nothing that makes more easy, attractive, and agreeable reading than a catalogue. It is true that the

rary after her. He was a little man, a poor little fellow, of mean aspect, clad in a thin jacket. He advanced towards me with a number of little bows and smiles. But he was very pale, and seemed ill, notwithstanding his youth and vivacity. The sight of him made me think of a wounded squirrel. Under his arm he had a bundle in a green cloth, which he placed on a chair; undoing the four corners of the cloth, he displayed a pile of little yellow books.

"Sir," he then said to me, "I have not the honour of being known to you. I am a book-agent, sir. I represent the principal houses in the capital, and, hoping that you will kindly honour me with your

confidence, I take the liberty of offering you some novelties."

Great heavens! what novelties were offered to me by this homunculus! The first volume which he gave me was "l'Histoire de la Tour de Nesle," containing the loves of Margaret of Burgundy and Captain Buridan.

"This is a historical work," said he, smiling, "a true record of facts."

"In that case," I replied, "it must be very tedious, for books of history which do not tell lies are always extremely dull. I, myself, write truthful ones, and if you should be so ill-advised as to offer one of these from door to door, you would most likely have to keep it for the rest of your days in your green cloth, without ever finding a cook with so little wit as to buy it."

"Certainly, sir," acquiesced the little man, only wishing to please me.

And, with a smile, he offered me the "Loves of Héloise and Abelard," but I gave him to understand that at my age love stories had no interest for me.

Still smiling, he offered me "Rules for Society Games:" Piquet, Bézique, Ecarté, Whist, Dice, Draughts, Chess.

"Alas!" exclaimed I; "if you wish to remind me of the rules of Bézique, give me back my old friend Bignan, with whom I used to play cards every evening till the five academies solemnly conducted him to the cemetery; or, failing that, persuade the serious mind of Hamilcar, whom you see asleep on that cushion, to condescend to the frivolity of human pastimes, for he is now my only companion in the evening."

The little man's smile became vague and alarmed. "Here," said he, "is a new collection of society amusements, containing jests and puns, and full instructions how to change a red rose into a white one.'

I told him that I had quarrelled with roses long ago, and, as to jokes, I was quite satisfied with those which I made myself unawares in the course of my scientific works.

The homunculus offered me his last book with his last smile. He said to me:

"Here is the Key to Dreams,' with the explanation of every dream which it is possible to have: Dreams of gold, robbers, death, or a fall from the top of a tower. You will find everything in it.' I had seized the tongs, and I shook them vigorously, as I answered my commercial visitor :

"Yes, my friend, but these dreams and a thousand others, joyous and sad besides, are summed up in one: the dream of life; and will your little yellow book give me the key to that?"

"The

"Yes, sir, "answered the homunculus. book is cheap and complete. The price is one franc twenty-five centimes, sir."

I called my housekeeper, for there is no bell in my room.

"Thérèse," said I, "I wish you to open the door for M. Coccoz. He has a book which may interest you; it is the 'Key to Dreams.' I shall be happy to present it to you."

My housekeeper replied:

"Sir, when one has no time for waking dreams,

one does not dream in one's sleep. Thank heaven! my days suffice for my work, and my work is sufficient for my days, and I can say every evening: 'Lord, bless the rest which I am about to take!' I neither dream on my feet nor in my bed, and I do not mistake my eider-down for a devil, as my cousin once did. And if you will allow me to give my opinion, I should say that we have quite enough books here already. You have so many that they turn your head, and I have two which contain all that I need, my prayer-book and my cookery book."

Having spoken thus, my housekeeper helped the little man to do up his wares again in the green cloth.

The homunculus had ceased to smile. His countenance had assumed such a suffering expression, that I was filled with remorse for having bantered a man who was evidently unhappy. I called him back, and told him that I had looked with covetous eyes at a copy of "l'Histoire d'Estelle et de Némorin," which he possessed; that I was very fond of shepherds and shepherdesses, and was willing to buy the story of these two perfect lovers at any reasonable price.

"I will sell you this book for one franc twentyfive, sir," answered Coccoz, whose face beamed with joy. "It is historical, and will please you. I know now what you like. I see that you are a connoisseur. To-morrow I shall bring you The Crimes of the Popes.' It is a good work. I shall bring you a copy of the edition with the coloured illustrations which collectors prize so much."

6

I begged him to do nothing of the kind, and sent him away contented. When the colporteur and his green cloth had disappeared in the dark corridor, I asked my housekeeper where the poor little man had dropped from.

"From the attics, sir," she answered, "where he lives with his wife."

"Do you mean to say he has a wife, Thérèse? Well, that is wonderful. Women are strange beings. She must be a poor little creature."

As

"I don't know very well what she is," answered Thérèse, "but I see her every morning sweeping downstairs in her silk dresses spotted with grease. She has sparkling eyes, which she makes good use of. Do you think that it is becoming in a woman, taken in out of charity, to have such eyes and dresses? the husband was ill, and the wife in an interesting condition, they have been allowed to have the attics while the roof is being repaired. The porter's wife tells me that the woman is in bed, and is likely to have her child to-day. Much need they had of a child!"

"Thérèse," answered I, "they had doubtless little need of one, but it was the will of nature, and so it is. We may pity them, but we must not blame them; and as for the silk dresses, every young woman likes them. The daughters of Eve are all devoted to dress. What a state you get into yourself, Thérèse, staid and serious as you are, if you have no white apron to wear when serving at table. But do you know if they have all that is needful in their garret?"

"How can they, sir!" answered my house

keeper; "the husband whom you have just seen used to go about selling jewellery, so the porter's wife says, and it is not known why he has ceased to sell watches. As you saw, he sells almanacks now. That is not an honest trade, and I cannot believe that a dealer in almanacks will ever be blessed. As for the wife, I think her about as fit to bring up a child as I am to play the guitar. Nobody knows where they came from, but I am sure that they must have travelled by the coach Want from the city of Don't Care."

"Wherever they may have come from, Thérèse, they are unfortunate, and their garret is cold."

"Indeed it is! The roof is cracked in several places, and the rain pours down in dirty streams. They have neither furniture nor linen. It strikes me that cabinetmakers and weavers don't work for people of that sort!"

"That is very sad, Thérèse; and the Christian woman upstairs is worse off than my pagan Hamilcar. Have you spoken to her?"

"Sir, I never speak to such people. I know neither what she says nor what she sings. But she sings all day long. I hear her as I go up and down stairs."

"Ah, well! it is perhaps unreasonable that little paupers should be born; nevertheless, it happens every day, and all the philosophers in the world will not succeed in reforming this absurd custom. Madame Coccoz has followed it, and she sings. That's all right. But, Thérèse, are you not making soup to-day?

"Yes, sir, and, indeed, it is full time I went to skim it."

"Very good. Be sure you take a large bowlful out of the pot, and carry it to Madame Coccoz, our neighbour above."

My housekeeper was about to go, when I added very opportunely:

"Thérèse, have the goodness, in the first place, to call your friend the commissionaire, and tell him to go into our wood-house and take a good basketful of wood to these poor people in the garret. And he must on no account omit to put in the heap one very large log, a real yule log. As for the homunculus, if he comes back again, I beg that you will politely refuse him and his books admittance."

Having arranged these little matters with the subtle egotism of an old bachelor, I began to read my catalogue again.

With what surprise, emotion, and agitation did I see in it the following notice, which my hand cannot transcribe without trembling:- The "Golden Legendary," by James of Genoa (Jacques de Voragnie), translated into French, small quarto.

"This manuscript is of the fourteenth century, and contains, besides a tolerably complete translation of Jacques de Voragnie's celebrated work:-1st, The lives of Saints Ferréol, Ferrution, Germain, Vincent, and Droctovée. 2nd, A poem on the miraculous burial of Saint Germain d'Auxerre. We owe the translation, legends, and poem to the clerk Alexander.

"This manuscript is written on vellum. It contains a great number of ornamented letters, and

two miniatures, which are finely executed, but in a bad state of preservation; one represents the purification of the Virgin, and the other, the coronation of Proserpine."

What a discovery! It brought perspiration to my forehead, and made my eyes grow dim. I trembled, I became red in the face, and being unable to speak, I felt as if I must shout.

What a treasure! For forty years I have been studying Christian Gaul, and more especially the glorious abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, whence came those monk-kings who founded our national dynasty. Now, in spite of the miserable incompleteness of the description, it was evident to me that the manuscript of the clerk Alexander proceeded from the great abbey. Everything assured me of it; all the lives added by the translator had reference to King Childebert's pious foundation. The life of Saint Droctovée was particularly significant, for he was the first abbot of my beloved abbey. The French poem, about the burial of Saint Germain, led me into the very nave of the venerable Basilica, which was the centre of Christian Gaul.

The "Golden Legendary" is in itself a vast and pleasing work. Jacques de Voragine, VicarGeneral of the Order of Saint Dominick and Archbishop of Genoa, made, in the thirteenth century, so rich a collection of traditions regarding the Saints of Catholicism, that in castle and monastery it was greeted with cries of: "This is the Golden Legendary!" The "Golden Legendary" was particularly rich in Roman hagiography. The monk who compiled it, being an Italian, seems to feel more at home in the dominions of Saint Peter. Voragine only looks at the greatest Saints of the West through a cold haze. Therefore Saxon and Aquitanian translators of this good monk's legends took care to add the lives of their national Saints to his collection.

I have read and compared many manuscript copies of the "Golden Legendary." I know those which my learned colleague, M. Paulin Paris, describes in his excellent catalogue of the manuscripts in the royal library. Two, in particular, have attracted my attention. One is of the fourteenth century, and contains a translation by Jean Belet; the other, a century younger, includes Jacques Vignay's version. Both proceed from the Colbert Endowment, and were placed on the shelves of that glorious library by the zeal of the librarian Baluze, whose name I cannot pronounce without taking off my cap, for, even in the century of giants in erudition, Baluze causes amazement by his greatness. I am acquainted with a very curious collection in the Bigot library, besides seventy-four printed editions beginning with the venerable ancestor of them all, the Strasburg edition in Gothic letters, which was begun in 1471, and ended in 1475. But not one of these manuscripts or printed editions contains the legends of the Saints Ferréol, Ferrution, Germain. Vincent, and Droctovée, not one bears the name of the clerk Alexander, nor does any one of them proceed from the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés To compare them with the manuscript described by Mr. Thompson is like comparing straw with gold.

I had before my eyes, and was touching with my fingers, an incontrovertible proof of the existence of this document. But what had become of the document itself? Sir Thomas Raleigh went to end his days on the shores of Lake Como, and took with him a part of his valuable possessions. Where had they found their way to after the death of this elegant antiquary? Where could the manuscript of the clerk Alexander have gone to?

Why, said I to myself, oh, why have I learnt that this precious book exists, if I am never to possess it, never to see it? I would go to the heart of burning Africa, or to the icy regions of the Pole, and seek for it, if I knew it was there; but I know not where it is. For aught I know, it may be guarded by a jealous bibliomaniac

in an iron safe with a threefold lock; or it may be mouldering in the garret of some ignoramus. I tremble at the thought that perhaps its scattered leaves now cover the gherkin pots of some thrifty housewife.

30th August, 1850. The oppressive heat of the day made me walk more slowly. I kept close to the walls of the north quay, and in the cool shade; the shops, full of old books, prints, and antique armour, invited my gaze and charmed my mind. Lounging about and hunting for books, I enjoyed in passing some finely turned verses by one of the Seven Poets, looked longingly at an elegant masquerade by Watteau, and carefully examined a

double-hilted sword, a steel gorget, and a morion. What a thick helmet, and what a heavy breastplate, good Lord! A giant's armour, doubtless? No; an insect's shell. The men of those days were armed like cockchafers: their weakness was within. Our force, on the contrary, is inside, and our armed souls inhabit feeble bodies.

Here is a crayon portrait of a lady of the olden time; the face, faded to a shadow, is smiling; and her hand, with an open-work mitten on it, is holding a ribboned lap-dog on her satin knees. This picture filled me with a charming melancholy. Those may laugh at me who have no sweet imaginings in their hearts.

Like horses, when they smell the stable, I go faster as I get near my home. Here is the human

bee-hive in which I have my cell, and distil the somewhat acrid honey of erudition. With weary

feet I climb the stairs. A few steps more, and I shall be at my door. But I guess, rather than see, that a dress is coming down, with a rustling sound like silk. I stop, and stand with my back to the wall. The lady has no hat on. She is young; she is singing; her eyes and teeth shine in the dim light, for she is laughing with mouth and eyes. She must be a neighbour, and a most intimate one. She is carrying a pretty child in her arms, a little boy, quite naked, like the son of a goddess. He has a little silver chain round his neck, with a medal attached to it. I see him sucking his thumbs and looking at me with his big eyes, wide open on this old universe, which is new to him.

me.

The mother looks at me, too, with an air of mystery and mischief. She stops, blushes, as it seems to me, and holds out the little creature to The baby has a pretty fold between his wrist and his arm, another at his neck; and all over him there are pretty little dimples laughing in the pink flesh.

His mamma shows him to me proudly. "Don't you think my little boy is very pretty, sir?" she said. She takes his hand, puts it on his mouth, and then directs the tiny fingers towards me, saying:

"Baby, send a kiss to the gentleman." And pressing the little thing in her arms she escapes as nimbly as a cat, and dives into a corridor, which, judging by the

smell, leads to a kitchen. I go into my room. "Thérèse, who can the young mother be that I have just seen on the staircase with a little boy?" Thérèse answers that it is Madame Coccoz.

I look at the ceiling as if seeking there for enlightenment. Thérèse reminds me of the little colporteur who brought me some almanacks the year before, while his wife was ill.

"And what of Coccoz?" asked I.

I was told that I should never see him again. Unknown to me and many others, the poor little man had been put underground shortly after the birth of his child. I learnt that his widow had got over the loss; I followed her example.

"But, Thérèse," I asked, "does Madame Coccoz want for nothing in the garret?"