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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 night of true and lawful purchase, and that he would not part with it unless he got five thousand francs for it cash down.
