for a wretched engraving for which he paid ten sous, to-morrow giving you at a low price a costly book, the value of which he knows.  Rabid Gallophobe, he never pardoned his old general the campaign of Dijon any more than he forgave Victor Emmanuel for having left the Vatican to Pius IX.  “The house of Savoy and the papacy,” said he, when he was confidential, “are two eggs which we must not eat on the same dish.”  And he would tell of a certain pillar of St. Peter’s hollowed into a staircase by Bernin, where a cartouch of dynamite was placed.  If you were to ask him why he became a book collector, he would bid you step over a pile of papers, of boarding and of folios.  Then he would show you an immense chamber, or rather a shed, where thousands of pamphlets were piled up along the walls:  “These are the rules of all the convents suppressed by Italy.  I shall write their history.”  Then he would stare at you, for he would fear that you might be a spy sent by the king with the sole object of learning the plans of his most dangerous enemy—­one of those spies of whom he has been so much in awe that for twenty years no one has known where he slept, where he ate, where he hid when the shutters of his shop in the Rue Borgognona were closed.  He expected, on account of his past, and his secret manner, to be arrested at the time of the outrage of Passanante as one of the members of those Circoli Barsanti, to whom a refractory corporal gave his name.

But, on examining the dusty cartoons of the old book-stall, the police discovered nothing except a prodigious quantity of grotesque verses directed against the Piedmontese and the French, against the Germans and the Triple Alliance, against the Italian republicans and the ministers, against Cavour and Signor Crispi, against the University of Rome and the Inquisition, against the monks and the capitalists!  It was, no doubt, one of those pasquinades which his customers watched him at work upon, thinking, as he did so, how Rome abounded in paradoxical meetings.

For, in 1867, that same old Garibaldian exchanged shots at Mentana with the Pope’s Zouaves, among whom was Marquis de Montfanon, for so was called the visitor awaiting Ribalta’s pleasure.  Twenty-three years had sufficed to make of the two impassioned soldiers of former days two inoffensive men, one of whom sold old volumes to the other!  And there is a figure such as you will not find anywhere else—­the French nobleman who has come to die near St. Peter’s.

Would you believe, to see him with his coarse boots, dressed in a simple coat somewhat threadbare, a round hat covering his gray head, that you have before you one of the famous Parisian dandies of 1864?  Listen to this other history.  Scruples of devoutness coming in the wake of a serious illness cast at one blow the frequenter of the ‘Cafe Anglais’ and gay suppers into the ranks of the pontifical zouaves.  A first sojourn in Rome during the last four years of the government of Pius IX, in that incomparable