well, is it to be wondered at if he is distraught with rage and despair.
Call upon him at such a crisis, and, were you his father, his brother, an angel, an archangel, you will soon see what sort of a reception you may expect,—unless, of course, the archangel by his archangelic power duplicates the signature that was unique or creates one that never existed at all.
Under such circumstances I should have been as ill received by Monsieur de Villenave as another. Otherwise I was sure to find a kind face, a complacent disposition and an obliging memory, even on week-days.
I say " week-days " because the Sunday was reserved by Monsieur de Villenave for scientific visitors. No foreign bibliophile, no cosmopolitan collector, ever came to Paris without paying a visit to Monsieur de Villenave, as vassals come to pay homage to their Suzerain. Sunday therefore was the day of exchanges, — exchanges thanks to which Monsieur de Villenave used to complete his foreign collections, for which the grocers' supplies were not adequate, by graciously sacrificing to the German, English or American amateurs some fragments from his wealth of French treasures.
Thus I had penetrated into the house; I had been received, to begin with on the first floor, in course of time on the second; I had got my entreé on any Sunday; last of all I had been admitted when and as often as I pleased,—a privilege I shared with two or three others at the most.
Well, one week-day—it was a Tuesday I think—I came to the house to ask Monsieur de Villenave to let me examine an autograph of Queen Christina (the reader will know my crotchet for judging of people's character by their handwriting), one day, I say, I came to the house with this object,—it was about five o'clock on a March afternoon—and rang the bell. I asked the concierge if Monsieur de Villenave were at home, and passsd in. Just as I was going to enter the house itself, Françoise called me to stop.
"What is it, Françoise?" I asked her.
"Are you going to see the ladies, sir, or to the master's rooms?"
"I am going to visit the master, Françoise."
"Well, if you would be so good and save my poor legs two flights of stairs, you might give this letter which has just come for him to Monsieur de Villenave."
"With pleasure I will, Françoise."
The servant gave me the letter, which I took and made my way upstairs. On reaching the door I knocked as usual, but received no answer. I knocked again, louder, only to be met with the same silence. Finally I knocked a third time, this time with some little fear and anxiety, for the key was in the lock, and its being so invariably implied that Monsieur de Villenave was within.
Accordingly I took it upon myself to open the door, and then I saw Monsieur de Villenave asleep in his armchair.
Roused by the noise I made, or perhaps by the inrush of air which accompanied my entrance and broke some magnetic influence, Monsieur de Villenave gave a smothered cry.
"A thousand pardons," I cried; "I have been indiscreet, I have disturbed you."
"Who are you? what do you want?"
"I am Alexandre Dumas."
"Ah!" Monsieur de Villenave drew a breath of relief.
"Really, I am desperately sorry," I went on, "I will leave you in peace."
"No, no," returned Monsieur de Villenave, giving a sigh and passing his hand across his brow, "come in!"
This I did, and he told me to sit down. By a rare chance a chair was vacant, which I took.
"You see," he murmured, " I had dropped asleep. It is very strange. The twilight crept in, and my fire went out. Then you woke me; I found myself in the dark, not knowing what noise it was broke my repose. Doubtless it was the wind from the door that blew across my face; but I seemed to see a great white sheet, a shroud it looked like. Strange, very strange, don't you think so?" Monsieur de Villenave went on, with that shiver of the whole body that means a man is chilled to the bone. "However, it's all over, thank goodness."
"You say that to make me forget my awkwardness in intruding."
"No, indeed no. I am very glad to see you. What have you there?"
"Ah, I beg pardon, I was forgetting; a letter for you."
"Ah ha, an autograph, and whose?"
"No, it is not an autograph, and it is, I imagine so at least, just simply and solely a letter."
