“You know, sir,” said I, continuing, “that after the glorious reigns of Koung-san-che, of Tchen Min, of Y-ti-ché, and of Houx-toun-che, came the reigns, still more glorious, of the seventy-one families, and that so much glory was only effaced by the birth of the immortal Emperor Ki, the greatest musician the world ever saw, and the inventor of Chinese politeness. I would like to consult, in this ‘vast depôt of all human knowledge,’ the history of the immortal Ki.” The nose of the _philosophe_ received a second time a pinch of the forbidden opium. He then opened an enormous handkerchief of Madras, and suddenly jerking the head, neck, and hand, made a great noise resembling that of a prolonged stroke upon a gong. When this tempest of the brain had passed by, he folded up his Madras, drew it five times across his face, and said, “We have not the history of the immortal Ki, your emperor.” “You have nothing, then,” said I, with that calmness which arises from wisdom, and which is humiliating to those Barbarians whom the genius of _Menu_ has never enlightened. The learned man crossed his hands and inclined his head, shutting his eyes, which means “Nothing,” in the language of the universe. Nevertheless, I continued my requests. “Since you have no books in this ‘vast depôt of all human knowledge,’ have you any maps?” “Oh, maps!” said he, with the smile of a resuscitated _savant_, “we have all kinds of maps, from the map of the Roman Emperor Theodosius to that of ‘_dame de cœur_.’” This answer, I have since been told, is a _bon mot_, apparently made by this man of study to relieve his mind of _ennui_. “Will you then show me,” said I, “the map of the Celestial Empire, called Tai-thsing-i-thoung icki?” The Madras again covered the visage of the _savant_; the box of opium was exhibited, and a shake of the head, covered with a white powder, announced to me that the map I sought did not exist at this vast depôt. “Wait,” said he to me, with a joyous expression, “I can, nevertheless, show you a few Chinese books which will please you. Follow me, lao-yé.” I followed him. We descended into some subterranean galleries, like to those of the Indian temples of the “Elephant.” The air was infected with camphor and whale oil. Right and left one could see by the twilight a great quantity of busts, in plaster, of the great men of France, all dead—because, I am told, there are never any living great ones there. “See!” said my conductor, “this is the shelf of Chinese books.” They were Persian. I thanked the _philosophe_ with that simple politeness which was invented by our immortal Ki, and left the library.