A different, and a more touching object presented itself to my view in the garden.  Walking with Madame, we came, through various detours, into a retired and wooded part:  where, on opening a sort of wicket gate, I found myself in a small square space, with hillocks in the shape of tumuli before me.  A bench was at the extremity.  It was a resting place for the living, and a depository of the dead.  Flowers, now a good deal faded, were growing upon these little mounds—­beneath which the dead seemed to sleep in peace.  “What might this mean?” “Sir,” replied Madame Treuttel, “this is consecrated ground.  My son-in-law sleeps here—­and his only and beloved child lies by the side of him.  You will meet my daughter, his wife, at dinner.  She, with myself, visit this spot at stated seasons—­when we renew and indulge our sorrows on the recollection of those who sleep beneath.  These are losses which the world can never repair.  We all mean to be interred within the same little fenced space.[127] I have obtained a long lease of it—­for some fifty years:  at the expiration of which time, the work of dissolution will be sufficiently complete with us all.”  So spake my amiable and enlightened guide.  The remainder of the day—­during which we took a stroll to Montmorenci, and saw the house and gardens where Rousseau wrote his Emile—­was spent in a mixed but not irrational manner:  much accordant with my own feelings, and most congenial with a languid state of body which had endured the heats of Paris for a month, without feeling scarcely a breath of air the whole time.

ANTOINE-AUGUSTIN RENOUARD, living in the Rue St. Andre des Arts, is the next bibliopolist whom I shall introduce to your attention.  He is among the most lynx-eyed of his fraternity:  has a great knowledge of books; a delightful ALDINE LIBRARY;[128]—­from which his Annals of the Aldine Press were chiefly composed—­and is withal a man in a great and successful line of business.  I should say he is a rich man; not because he has five hundred bottles of Burgundy in his cellar, which some may think to be of a more piquant quality than the like number of his Alduses—­but because he has published some very beautiful and expensive editions of the Latin and French Classics, with equal credit to himself and advantage to his finances.[129] He debuted with a fine edition of Lucan in 1795, folio; and the first catalogue of his books was put forth the following year.  From that moment to the present, he has never slackened head, hand, or foot, in the prosecution of his business; while the publication of his Annals of the Aldine Press places him among the most skilful and most instructive booksellers in Europe.  It is indeed a masterly performance:  and as useful as it is elegantly printed.[130] M. Renouard is now occupied in an improved edition of Voltaire, which he means to adorn with engravings; and of which he shewed me the original