ced to everybody and everything in the
place. He ended by asking me to dine with him the following day, adding
that if I cared to examine his library he could give me an excellent cup
of chocolate.

I went, and saw an enormous collection of comments on the Latin poets
from Ennius to the poets of the twelfth century of our era. He had had
them all printed at his own expense and at his private press, in four
tall folios, very accurately printed but without elegance. I told him my
opinion, and he agreed that I was right.

The want of elegance which had spared him an outlay of a hundred thousand
francs had deprived him of a profit of three hundred thousand.

He presented me with a copy, which he sent to my inn, with an immense
folio volume entitled "Marmora Pisaurentia," which I had no time to
examine.

I was much pleased with the marchioness, who had three daughters and two
sons, all good-looking and well bred.

The marchioness was a woman of the world, while her husband's interests
were confined to his books. This difference in disposition sometimes gave
rise to a slight element of discord, but a stranger would never have
noticed it if he had not been told.

Fifty years ago a wise man said to me: "Every family is troubled by some
small tragedy, which should be kept private with the greatest care. In
fine, people should learn to wash their dirty linen in private."

The marchioness paid me great attention during the five days I spent at
Pesaro. In the day she drove me from one country house to another, and at
night she introduced me to all the nobility of the town.

The marquis might have been fifty then. He was cold by temperament, had
no other passion but that of study, and his morals were pure. He had
founded an academy of which he was the president. Its design was a fly,
in allusion to his name Mosca, with the words 'de me ce', that is to say,
take away 'c' from 'musca' and you have 'musa'.

His only failing was that which the monks regard as his finest quality,
he was religious to excess, and this excess of religion went beyond the
bounds where 'nequit consistere rectum'.

But which is the better, to go beyond these bounds, or not to come up to
them? I cannot venture to decide the question. Horace says,--

"Nulla est mihi religio!"

and it is the beginning of an ode in which he condemns philosophy for
estranging him from religion.

Excess of every kind is bad.

I left Pesaro delighted with the