But the hall was empty. No one was to be seen except the indefatigable M. Thour, who was patiently cataloguing upon cards the titles of the books which had escaped his notice the previous day. The happiest among all men is he who has at his command, and accurately arranged, a faithful transcription of the title-pages of all known books. It is nothing to him if all the productions of printing are destroyed in the next revolution which the perfection of progress promises us. He can leave to posterity the complete catalogue of the universal library. He would have admirable forethought in seeing from afar the necessity for compiling this inventory of civilization. A few years more, and civilization will be no longer spoken about. “God forgive me, Theodore,” said Silvestre; “you have mistaken the day. Those books that you see were sold yesterday in the last session, and are waiting for the porter to deliver them.” Theodore reeled and turned pale. His face assumed the tint of old citron morocco. I felt the blow that had struck him, to the bottom of my own heart. [Illustration] “It is no matter,” he said, with an altered manner. “I recognize only my usual ill luck in this bad news. But to whom do these things belong, these pearls and diamonds, these wonderful riches in which the libraries of de Thou and Grolier would have gloried?” “As usual, sir,” Silvestre answered, “these original editions of the classics, these perfect old copies with the autographs of celebrated scholars, these piquant philological curiosities, of which academy and university have never heard, rightfully revert to Richard Heber.[7] It is the British lion’s share, to whom we are willing to surrender, with good grace, the Greek and Latin classics which we have ceased to understand. These fine collections of natural history, these masterpieces of workmanship and pictorial art, belong to Prince ----, who uses his studious tastes to still further enhance his great fortune. These mysteries of the middle ages, these phœnix-like precepts whose counterpart[8] is no longer in existence, these curious dramatic attempts of our ancestors, will swell the model library of M. de Soleine. These well-preserved facetiæ, so strikingly subtle and enjoyable, have been purchased by your friend M. Aimé-Martin. I need not tell you to whom these fresh, brilliant morocco bindings belong, with the triple fillets, wide dentelle, and sumptuous panels. He is the Shakespeare among the minor collectors, the Corneille of melodrama, the graceful and often eloquent interpreter of the feelings and virtues of the populace, who, after having depreciated the value of books in the morning, bought them for their weight in gold in the evening, not, however, without grinding his teeth like a mortally wounded boar, and turning a tragic eye, veiled by black eyebrows, upon his rivals.” Theodore had ceased to listen. He was handling a beautiful volume that he [Illustration]