“You don’t take in what I am telling you,” answered Sariette. “The book belongs to the d’Esparvieu library; I must restore it to its place.”
“Pas de ça, Lisette”——hummed Guinardon.
“The book belongs to me, I tell you!”
“You are crazy, my good Sariette!”
And noticing that, as a matter of fact, the librarian had a wandering look in his eye, he took the book from him, and tried to change the conversation.
“Have you seen, Sariette, that the rascals are going to rip up the Palais Mazarin, and cover up the very heart and centre of the Old Town, the finest and most venerable place in the whole of Paris, with the deuce knows what works of art of theirs? They are worse than the Vandals, for the Vandals, although they destroyed the buildings of antiquity, did not replace them with hideous and disgusting erections and atrocious bridges like the Pont d’Alexandre. And your poor Rue Garancière, Sariette, has fallen a prey to the barbarians. What have they done with the pretty bronze mask of the Palace fountain?”
Monsieur Sariette never listened to a word of all this.
“Guinardon, you have not understood me. Now listen. This book belongs to the d’Esparvieu library. It was taken away, how or by whom I know
