Theodore had never intrenched himself behind that insolent negation of unbelievers which is the science of fools; but the dear man had pushed the useless study of the letter, in books, too far to comprehend the spirit. In a perfect state of health a doctrine of any kind would give him a fever, or a dogma induce lockjaw. In a theological matter he would have lowered his colors before a Saint-Simonian. He turned his face to the wall. A long time passed without a word, and we should have thought that he was dead, except as I bent close to him I heard him murmur feebly, “A third of a line! God of goodness and justice! but where will you give me back that third of a line, and how far can your omnipotence retrieve the irreparable error of that binder?” One of his friends, a bibliophile, came in a minute later. They told him that Theodore was in the last agony; that he was delirious to the point of thinking that the Abbé Lemascrier had made the third part of the world; and that he had lost his power of speech a quarter of an hour before. [Illustration] “I am going to make sure of it,” said the amateur. “By what mistake in pagination do we recognize the genuine 1635 Elzevir edition of Cæsar?” he asked Theodore. “153 for 149.” “Very good. And of the Terence of the same year?” “108 for 104.” “The devil!” I said; “the Elzevirs played in bad luck with their figures that year. They were wise not to choose it for the printing of their logarithms.” “Wonderful!” continued Theodore’s friend. “If I had listened to these people here, I should have believed that you were at the point of death.” “A third of a line,” replied Theodore, whose voice was failing by degrees. “I know your story, but it is nothing in comparison with mine. Think what I lost, eight days ago, in one of those bastard, nameless sales which are advertised only by a placard on the door,--a Boccaccio of 1527,[13] as beautiful as your own, the binding of Venetian vellum, with the pointed a’s proved throughout, and not a leaf repaired.” All Theodore’s faculties concentrated in one idea. “Are you very sure that the a’s were pointed?” “As pointed as the iron tip of a lancer’s halberd.” “It was then, doubtless, the ‘Vintisettine’ itself.” [Illustration] “Its very self. We had a jolly dinner that day: charming women, fresh oysters, intelligent people, and champagne. I reached the sale three minutes after the hammer fell.” “Sir,” cried Theodore in a fury, “when the ‘Vintisettine’ is to be sold, one does not dine!” [Illustration] His vitality, which had been sustained by the excitement of the conversation, as the bellows revives a dying spark, was exhausted by his last effort. His lips muttered once more, “A third of a line!” but they were his last words.