In a street on the left bank of the river, called the _rue de Vaugirard_, there lives a man of middle age and sedentary habits who is a sort of magician. He is constantly attended and served by one of the elemental spirits known as sylphs. This sylph he calls Meriline. I do not know from what language he got the name, for he seems to speak several, and to know Hebrew. I have seen this Meriline coming and going to and from his apartment. No, it would not be right for me to tell you where it is. The man could be identified, though the sylph would elude the census-taker. Meriline does not make his bed or cook his broth, for which humble service he has a char-woman; but the sylph runs errands and discovers things for him. He is a collector of old books and manuscripts, and many of his treasures have been located by Meriline in the stalls which lie along the banks of the Seine, and also in more pretentious bookshops. This man is not a devil-worshipper. He is only a harmless enthusiast, fond of occult things, and striving to pierce the veil which shuts the elemental world from his eyes. A little less brandy and wine, and he _might_ be able to see clearly, for he is a true student. But he is fond of the flesh, and it preys upon the spirit. One day I encountered Meriline going upon one of his errands, and I introduced myself by signalling with my hands and calling my name. This attracted the attention of the sprite, who came and stood beside me. “Where are you going?” I asked; and she nodded towards the other side of the river. The thought came to me that perhaps I ought not to question this servant of the good magician as to her master’s business, so I hesitated. She also hesitated; then she said: “But he is interested in the spirits of men.” This made the matter simpler, and I asked: “You do his errands?” “Yes, always.” “Why do you do his errands?” “Because I love to serve him.” “And why do you love to serve him?” “Because I belong to him.” “I thought every soul belonged to itself.” “But I am not a soul!” “Then what are you?” “A sylph.” “Do you ever expect to be a soul?” “Oh, yes! He has promised that I shall be, if I serve him faithfully.” “But how can he make you to be a soul?” “I don’t know; but he will.” “How do you know that he will?” “Because I trust him.” “What makes you trust him?” “Because he trusts me.” “And you always tell him the truth?” “Always.” “Who taught you what truth is?” “He did.” “How?” This seemed to puzzle the being before me, and I feared she would go away; so I detained her by saying, quickly: “I do not want to worry you with questions which you cannot answer. Tell me how you first came into his service.” “Ought I?” “So you have a conscience?” “Yes, he taught me to have.” “But you say that he is interested in the spirits of men.” “Yes, and I also know good spirits from bad ones.” “Did he teach you that?” “No.” “How did you learn?” “I always knew.” “Then you have lived a long time?”