“That is it indeed,” he said, looking at the inscription on the first page and turning over the leaves; “that is it indeed,” and two big tears fell on the pages. “Well, sir,” said he, lifting his head, and no longer trying to hide from me that he had wept and was even then on the point of weeping, “do you value this book very greatly?” “Why?” “Because I have come to ask you to give it up to me.” “Pardon my curiosity, but was it you, then, who gave it to Marguerite Gautier?” “It was!” “The book is yours, sir; take it back. I am happy to be able to hand it over to you.” “But,” said M. Duval with some embarrassment, “the least I can do is to give you in return the price which you paid for it.” “Allow me to offer it to you. The price of a single volume in a sale of that kind is a mere nothing, and I do not remember how much I gave for it.” “You gave one hundred francs.” “True,” I said, embarrassed in my turn, “how do you know?” “It is quite simple. I hoped to reach Paris in time for the sale, and I only managed to get here this morning. I was absolutely resolved to have something which had belonged to her, and I hastened to the auctioneer and asked him to allow me to see the list of the things sold and of the buyers’ names. I saw that this volume had been bought by you, and I decided to ask you to give it up to me, though the price you had set upon it made me fear that you might yourself have some souvenir in connection with the possession of the book.” As he spoke, it was evident that he was afraid I had known Marguerite as he had known her. I hastened to reassure him. “I knew Mlle. Gautier only by sight,” I said; “her death made on me the impression that the death of a pretty woman must always make on a young man who had liked seeing her. I wished to buy something at her sale, and I bid higher and higher for this book out of mere obstinacy and to annoy someone else, who was equally keen to obtain it, and who seemed to defy me to the contest. I repeat, then, that the book is yours, and once more I beg you to accept it; do not treat me as if I were an auctioneer, and let it be the pledge between us of a longer and more intimate acquaintance.” “Good,” said Armand, holding out his hand and pressing mine; “I accept, and I shall be grateful to you all my life.” I was very anxious to question Armand on the subject of Marguerite, for the inscription in the book, the young man’s hurried journey, his desire to possess the volume, piqued my curiosity; but I feared if I questioned my visitor that I might seem to have refused his money only in order to have the right to pry into his affairs. It was as if he guessed my desire, for he said to me: “Have you read the volume?” “All through.” “What did you think of the two lines that I wrote in it?” “I realized at once that the woman to whom you had given the volume must have been quite outside the ordinary category, for I could not take those two lines as a mere empty compliment.”