If you have the curiosity to learn the identity of this charming man with the single unpardonable fault, it can be found in a little book of memoirs by Étienne Delécluze, an editor of the “Journal des Débats.” He says that nothing was more amusing than the quarrels which arose between Sacy and Saint-Marc Girardin on the subject of books--the one being unable to find either text or binding of sufficient beauty to express the admiration inspired by the writings of Cicero and Molière, Fénelon and Montaigne; the other careless about the exterior condition of a book, but eager to know its contents. These two charming minds have created laughter more than once when, in answer to the tantalizing tone in which Saint-Marc uttered the word _bibliophile_ (collector of best editions), Sacy would reply with humorous gaiety, “You are only a _bouquiniste_” (old-book dealer). While these figures float and vanish, between the lines of the bibliomaniac appears the figure of a philosophic _bouquineur_, who comes closer to us, and who has often been seen by the frequenters of the quays. It is Xavier Marmier. He walked from box to box with short steps, his only journeys then being among the trays of the book-dealers--this man who in former times had been such a great traveller. A little broken by his eighty years, and his lower lip drooping, his expression at the same time was kindly and intelligent, bearing the marks both of easy skepticism and extreme good will. He would turn the books over, ask the price, and slip two or three volumes into the deep pockets of his blue coat. One day he said to me, with an air of triumph, “I have just bought the first edition of one of my own books. This fact of its being the first edition, however, does not add much to the value of the book; but these ‘Lettres sur le Nord’ have shivered so long in the box, and have spent so many weeks in the same place, that I took pity on them.” Then Marmier told me with provincial gaiety that the seller--a gamin who, strangely enough, did not know him--had asked him two francs for the copy. “Two francs!” exclaimed Marmier. “Yes, sir; that is what it is worth. It is by Marmier.” “Hum! hum! I know that it is by Marmier, but that does not make it worth two francs.” “But, sir, he is an Academician.” “]Are you sure of that?” “Yes, sir; it says so on the cover.” “But has he not been dead a long time?” “That I do not know, but it is possible that he has.” “See here,” said Marmier, “dead or alive he is not worth more than thirty sous.” “Well, then, you may have it.” And Marmier, very happy, took the book, intending to give it to some old friend, “who perhaps will not sell it before to-morrow,” he said.