ours, that might be more
profitably employed in discovering the law of numbers, to the solving
of these cryptic symbols, Monsieur Sariette remained the only one
capable of finding his way among the intricacies of his system, and
without his help it had become an utter impossibility to discover, among
the three hundred and sixty thousand volumes confided to his care, the
particular volume one happened to require. Such was the result of his
labours. Far from complaining about it, he experienced on the contrary a
lively satisfaction.

Monsieur Sariette loved his library. He loved it with a jealous love. He
was there every day at seven o'clock in the morning busy cataloguing at
a huge mahogany desk. The slips in his handwriting filled an enormous
case standing by his side surmounted by a plaster bust of Alexandre
d'Esparvieu. Alexandre wore his hair brushed straight back, and had a
sublime look on his face. Like Chateaubriand, he affected little
feathery side whiskers. His lips were pursed, his bosom bare. Punctually
at midday Monsieur Sariette used to sally forth to lunch at a _cremerie_
in the narrow gloomy Rue des Canettes. It was known as the _Cremerie des
Quatre Eveques_, and had once been the haunt of Baudelaire, Theodore de
Banville, Charles Asselineau, and a certain grandee of Spain who had
translated the "Mysteries of Paris" into the language of the
_conquistadores_. And the ducks that paddled so nicely on the old stone
sign which gave its name to the street used to recognize Monsieur
Sariette. At a quarter to one, to the very minute, he went back to his
library, where he remained until seven o'clock. He then again betook
himself to the _Quatre Eveques_, and sat down to his frugal dinner, with
its crowning glory of stewed prunes. Every evening, after dinner, his
crony, Monsieur Guinardon, universally known as Pere Guinardon, a
scene-painter and picture-restorer, who used to do work for churches,
would come from his garret in the Rue Princesse to have his coffee and
liqueur at the _Quatre Eveques_, and the two friends would play their
game of dominoes.

Old Guinardon, who was like some rugged old tree still full of sap, was
older than he could bring himself to believe. He had known Chenavard.
His chastity was positively ferocious, and he was for ever denouncing
the impurities of neo-paganism in language of alarming obscenity. He
loved talking. Monsieur Sariette was a ready listener. Old Guinardon's
favourite subje