d, when he resolved to pass the night in the
very spot where these terrible mysteries were enacted, and to take the
subtle and dangerous visitors by surprise. It was an enterprise that
demanded all his slender courage. Being a man of delicate physique and
of nervous temperament, Monsieur Sariette was naturally inclined to be
fearful. On the 8th of January at nine o'clock in the evening, while the
city lay asleep under a whirling snowstorm, he built up a good fire in
the room containing the busts of the ancient poets and philosophers, and
ensconced himself in an arm-chair at the chimney corner, a rug over his
knees. On a small stand within reach of his hand were a lamp, a bowl of
black coffee, and a revolver borrowed from the youthful Maurice. He
tried to read his paper, _La Croix_, but the letters danced beneath his
eyes. So he stared hard in front of him, saw nothing but the shadows,
heard nothing but the wind, and fell asleep.

When he awoke the fire was out, the lamp was extinguished, leaving an
acrid smell behind. But all around, the darkness was filled with milky
brightness and phosphorescent lights. He thought he saw something
flutter on the table. Stricken to the marrow with cold and terror, but
upheld by a resolve stronger than any fear, he rose, approached the
table, and passed his hands over the cloth. He saw nothing; even the
lights faded, but under his fingers he felt a folio wide open; he tried
to close it, the book resisted, jumped up and hit the imprudent
librarian three blows on the head.

Monsieur Sariette fell down unconscious....

Since then things had gone from bad to worse. Books left their allotted
shelves in greater profusion than ever, and sometimes it was impossible
to replace them; they disappeared. Monsieur Sariette discovered fresh
losses daily. The Bollandists were now an imperfect set, thirty volumes
of exegesis were missing. He himself had become unrecognisable. His face
had shrunk to the size of one's fist and grown yellow as a lemon, his
neck was elongated out of all proportion, his shoulders drooped, the
clothes he wore hung on him as on a peg. He ate nothing, and at the
_Cremerie des Quatre Eveques_ he would sit with dull eyes and bowed
head, staring fixedly and vacantly at the saucer where, in a muddy
juice, floated his stewed prunes. He did not hear old Guinardon relate
how he had at last begun to restore the Delacroix paintings at St.
Sulpice.

Monsieur Rene d'Esparvieu, when he