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“But,” added Monsieur Sariette, “the book to which the mysterious visitant devoted the most particular attention was undoubtedly a little copy of Lucretius adorned with the arms of Philippe de Vendôme, Grand Prieur de France, with autograph annotations by Voltaire, who, as is well known, frequently visited the Temple m his younger days. The fearsome reader who caused me such terrible anxiety never grew weary of this Lucretius and made it his bedside book, as it were. His taste was sound, for it’s a gem of a thing. Alas! the monster made a blot of ink on page 137 which perhaps the chemists with all the science at their disposal will be powerless to erase.”
And Monsieur Sariette heaved a profound sigh. He repented having said all this when young d’Esparvieu asked him for the loan of the precious Lucretius. Vainly did the jealous custodian affirm that the book was being repaired at the binder’s and was not available. Maurice made it clear that he wasn’t to be taken in like that. He strode resolutely into the abode of the philosophers and the globes and seating himself in an arm-chair said:
“I am waiting.”
Monsieur Sariette suggested his having another edition. There were some that, textually, were more correct, and were, therefore, preferable from the student’s point of view. He offered him Barbou’s edition, or Coustelier’s, or, better still, a French
