arise. A thick volume of smoke rose over the
castle. A shower of sparks and of cinders fell
round me, and I soon became aware that my garments
and my hands were blackened. With much mortification
I thought that all that burning dust in the air was
the end of so many fine books and precious manuscripts,
which were the joy of my dear master, the remains,
perhaps, of Zosimus the Panopolitan, on which we had
worked together during the noblest hours of my life.
I had seen the Abbe Jerome Coignard die. Now,
it was his soul, his sparkling and sweet soul, which
I fancied reduced to ashes together with the queen
of libraries. The wind strengthened the fire and
the flames roared like voracious beasts.
Questioning a man of Neuilly still blacker than myself,
and wearing only his vest, I asked him if M. d’Asterac
and his people had been saved.
“Nobody,” he said, “has left the
castle except an old Jew, who was seen running laden
with packages in the direction of the swamps.
He lived in the keeper’s cottage on the river,
and was hated for his origin and for the crimes of
which he was suspected. Children pursued him.
And in running away he fell into the Seine. He
was fished out when dead, pressing on his heart a
cup and six golden plates. You can see him on
the river bank in his yellow gown. With his eyes
open he is horrible.”
“Ah!” I replied, “his end is due
to his crimes. But his death does not give me
back the best of masters whom he slew. Tell me
again; has nobody seen M. d’Asterac?”
At the very moment when I put the question I heard
near me one of the moving shadows cry out:
“Thereof is falling in!”
And now I recognised with unspeakable horror the great
black form of M. d’Asterac running along the
gutters. The alchemist shouted with a sounding
voice:
“I rise on wings of flame up to the seat of
life divine!”
So he said, and suddenly the roof fell in with a tremendous
crash, and the flames as high as mountains enveloped
the friend of the Salamanders.
I become a Bookseller—I have many learned
and witty Customers but none to equal the Abbe Jerome
Coignard, D. D., M. A,
There is no love will stand separation. The memory
of Jahel, smarting at first, was smoothed down little
by little, and nothing remained but a vague irritation,
of which she was no longer the only object.
M. Blaizot aged quickly. He retired to Montrouge,
to his cottage in the fields, and sold me his shop
against a life annuity. Having become in his
place the sworn bookseller of the Image of Saint
Catherine, I took with me my father and mother,
whose cookshop flourished no more. I liked my
humble shop and took care to trim it up. I nailed
on the doors some old Venetian maps and some theses
ornamented with allegorical engravings, which made
a decoration old and odd no doubt, but pleasant to
friends of good learning. My knowledge, taking
care to hide it cleverly, was not detrimental to my
trade. It would have been worse had I been a publisher
like Marc-Michel Rey, and obliged like him to gain
my living at the expense of the stupidity of the public.
