I There now only remain the bedroom and the black cabinet behind M. Villenave's alcove, which was reached by a corridor, about which we shall have occasion to say a few words. Only those who saw that bedroom, wherein the bed was the least conspicuous piece of furniture, can conceive any idea of what the bedroom of a bibliomaniac is like. It was in this room that M. Villenave received his friends. After four or five months' intimacy in the household, I had the honour of being received in it. An old servant, called, I believe, Françoise, conducted me to it. I had promised M. Villenave an autograph--not that of Napoleon, of which he possessed five or six, or that of Bonaparte, of which he had three or four--but one of _Buonaparte._ He had given orders that I was to be shown upstairs as soon as I arrived. Françoise half opened the door. "M. Dumas is here," she said. Generally, when anyone was announced, even were he an intimate friend who had come unexpectedly, M. Villenave would utter a loud cry, scold Françoise and fling up his arms in despair; then, finally, when he had indulged his fit of despair, and moaned and sighed his fill, he would say-- "Very well, Françoise, as he is there, show him in." Then the intruder would be let in. My reception was quite otherwise. M. Villenave had hardly caught my name before he exclaimed-- "Show him in! show him in!" In I went. "Ah! here you are," he said. "Well, I wager you have not been able to find it!" "What?" "That famous autograph you promised me yesterday." "Yes, indeed ... I have found it." "And have you brought it?" "To be sure I have!..." "Really?" "Here it is!" "Quick, let me see it!" I handed it to him. M. Villenave rushed up to the window. "Yes, it is genuine," he said; "there is the _u_!... Oh! there is his very own _u_, there is no doubt about it. Let us see: '29 vendémiaire, year IV,' that is it!... Stop, stop!" He went to a box. "See, here is one of _frimaire_ in the same year, signed 'Bonaparte, 12 frimaire'; so it must have been between 29 vendémiaire and 12 frimaire that he dropped his _u_; this determines a great historic question!" While this monologue was being carried on, I had been glancing round the bedchamber thoroughly, and I had noticed that the only piece of furniture that was not encumbered with books was the arm-chair from which he had just risen. After M. Villenave had carefully examined the autograph, he put it into a white wrapper, wrote on the wrapper, placed it in a box, put the box in its place and flung himself back into his arm-chair, with a sigh of joy. "Ah! now, sit down," he said. "I should like nothing better," I replied; "but what do you mean me to sit on?" "Why, on the couch." "Oh yes, on the couch!" "What about it?" "Well, just look at the couch for yourself." "Upon my word, you are right; it is full of books. Never mind, pull up an arm-chair." "With great pleasure. But the arm-chairs ...?" "The arm-chairs?"