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the shovel in the coke fire, shook out Monsieur Sariette’s best frock-coat that was hanging in the cloak-room, and then stood and gazed disconsolately at the empty places left by the Gassendi portfolios.
For the past half-century the whole learned world had been loudly clamouring for the publication of this correspondence. Monsieur René d’Esparvieu had not responded to the universal desire, unwilling either to assume so heavy a task, or to resign it to others. Having found much boldness of thought in these letters, and many passages of more libertine tendency than the piety of the twentieth century could endure, he preferred that they should remain unpublished; but he felt himself responsible for their safe-keeping, not only to his country but to the whole civilized world.
“How can you have allowed yourself to be robbed of such a treasure?” he asked severely of Monsieur Sariette.
“How can I have allowed myself to be robbed of such a treasure?” repeated the unhappy librarian. “Monsieur, if you opened my breast, you would find that question engraved upon my heart.”
Unmoved by this powerful utterance, Monsieur d’Esparvieu continued with pent-up fury:
“And you have discovered no single sign that would put you on the track of the thief, Monsieur Sariette? You have no suspicion, not the faintest
