“I usedn’t to take so many precautions in the old days,” he said, going to the bottle of spirits of peppermint and sprinkling a few drops on each of the wounds. His anger had cooled a little, when, as he was putting back the bottle, he noticed that the photograph of himself and his mother had been slightly disturbed. Then he seized it, gazed at it for the last time with a kind of anguish, and as the blood rushed to his face, tore it furiously to shreds. He tried to burn the pieces, but he could not get them to light; so, clearing the fire-place of the bags which littered it, he took his only two books and set them in the hearth to serve as fire-dogs, pulled his pocket-book apart, hacked it to pieces, crumpled it up, flung his picture on the top and set fire to the whole. With his face close to the flames he persuaded himself that it was with unspeakable satisfaction that he watched these keepsakes burning, but when he rose to his feet after nothing was left of them but ashes, his head was swimming. The room was full of smoke. He went to his wash-hand-stand and bathed his face. He was now able to consider the little visiting-card with a steadier eye. “Count Julius de Baraglioul,” he repeated. “_Dapprima importa sapere chi è._” He tore off the silk handkerchief which he was wearing instead of a collar and tie, unfastened his shirt and, standing in front of the open window, let the cool air play round his chest and sides. Then suddenly all eagerness to go out, with his boots rapidly drawn on, his cravat swiftly knotted, a respectable grey felt hat on his head--appeased and civilised as far as in him lay--Lafcadio shut the door of his room behind him and made his way to the Place St. Sulpice. There, in the big lending-library opposite the town hall, he would be certain to find all the information he wanted. IV As he passed under the arcades of the Odéon, Julius’s novel, which was on sale in the book shops, caught his eye; it was a yellow paper book, the mere sight of which on any other occasion would have made him yawn. He felt in his pocket and flung a five-franc piece on the counter. “A fine fire for this evening,” thought he, as he carried off the book and the change. In the lending-library a “Who’s Who” gave a short account of Julius’s invertebrate career, mentioned the titles of his works and praised them in terms so conventional as effectually to quench any desire to read them. “Ugh!” said Lafcadio.... He was just going to shut up the book when three or four words in the preceding paragraph caught his eye and made him start. A few lines above _Julius de Baraglioul (Vmte.)_ Lafcadio saw under the heading _Juste-Agénor_: “Minister at Bucharest in 1873.” What was there in these simple words to make his heart beat so fast?