translation. He could have the Baron des Coutures’ version—which was perhaps a little old-fashioned—or La Grange’s, or those in the Nisard and Panckouke series; or, again, there were two verstons of striking elegance, one in verse and the other in prose, both from the pen of Monsieur de Pongerville of the French Academy.
“I don’t need a translation,” said Maurice proudly. “Give me the Prior de Vendôme’s copy.”
Monsieur Sariette went slowly up to the cupboard in which the jewel mm question was contained. The keys were rattling in his trembling hand. He raised them to the lock and withdrew them again immediately and suggested that Maurice should have the common Lucretius published by Garnier.
“It’s very handy,” said he with an engaging smile.
But the silence with which this proposal was received made it clear that resistance was useless. He slowly drew forth the volume from its place, and having taken the precaution to see that there wasn’t a speck of dust on the table-cloth, he laid it tremblingly thereon before the great-grandson of Alexandre d’Esparvieu.
Maurice began to turn the leaves, and when he got to page 137 he saw the stain which had been made with violet ink. It was about the size of a pea.
