“Take care,” said Ireneus, “you touch a sensitive string of my uncle’s breast.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “Eric has told me of your discussions on this subject.  I however know my friend M. de Vermondans, and whatever disdain of science he may affect, I believe he would be distressed if he did not know all that he has turned to so good a purpose in life.  In attacking in your conversations books and writers, he did not tell you how much he had borrowed from them, and how earnestly he had read them.”

“What books?” asked M. de Vermondans; “a few incomplete histories, and some odd volumes of philosophy.  One must examine closely the reveries of human pride to be able to judge of them.”

“Traitor!” said M. Guldberg, shaking his finger affectionately at his friend, “you not only persist in hypocrisy, but you attack the character of my library.  A few incomplete histories! a few odd volumes!  Must I then recall to you the admiration with which you looked at my books, and studied all that I had collected?  Some incomplete histories! a few odd volumes!  Must I recall to you the delight with which you often have studied my collection?  Must I defend it against you?  Know, that to attack my books is to make war against myself.  I passed forty years of my life in collecting them, and to each one is attached some pleasant remembrance.  From some I date my student life, and my entry into the priesthood.  From some I fix the epoch of my marriage, and the various phases of my existence; some I found in a country cabin, where they were forgotten; some I brought from Stockholm, where I had been to see my bishop and an old friend.  All therefore recall to me kind teachers, skillful guides, and are the memorials of different events, which are the great items of my life.  Gradually I have collected around me those books which interest me the most.  When I am here in my woodland home they are company to me, and the most instructive friends man can meet with.  Here I have the philosophers, who aid me in the examination of the mysteries of the soul; the historians, who record the revolutions of nations; the geologists and natural philosophers, who expound to me the organic laws of nature; the poets, who sing the joyous or sad emotions of the heart.  Whatever may be my moral disposition, I need only to reach my hand toward one of them to seize on some brilliant intellect, to enlighten, strengthen, and console me.”

“How that delights me!” said Ebba, in a low tone.

“Listen,” said M. de Vermondans, with emphasis, and with an intonation of grief entirely contradicted by his face, “see, this woman has been bewitched:  the poison of your pernicious doctrines has reached the very interior of my house.  I fancied I would be able to educate my daughter in the love of good principles, but I have warmed a very serpent at my heart.  Luckily, I see my faithful Alete attending only to the positive and who now says that dinner is ready or Christmas-day.  Christmas comes but once a year.”