ok
is sold."

"Sold? To whom?" asked Sariette in agonized tones.

"What does that matter? You'll never see it again. You'll hear no more
about it; it's off to America."

"To America! The _Lucretius_ with the arms of Philippe de Vendome and
marginalia in Voltaire's own hand! My _Lucretius_ off to America!"

Pere Guinardon began to laugh.

"My dear Sariette, you remind me of the Chevalier des Grieux when he
learns that his darling mistress is to be transported to the
Mississippi. 'My dear mistress going to the Mississippi!' says he."

"No! no!" answered Sariette, very pale, "this book shall not go to
America. It shall return, as it ought, to the d'Esparvieu library. Let
me have it, Guinardon."

The antiquary made a second attempt to put an end to an interview that
now looked as if it might take an ugly turn.

"My good Sariette, you haven't told me what you think of my Greco. You
never so much as glanced at it. It is an admirable piece of work all
the same."

And Guinardon, putting the picture in a good light, went on:

"Now just look at Saint Francis here, the poor man of the Lord, the
brother of Jesus. See how his fuliginous body rises heavenward like the
smoke from an agreeable sacrifice, like the sacrifice of Abel."

"Give me the book, Guinardon," said Sariette, without turning his head;
"give me the book."

The blood suddenly flew to Pere Guinardon's head.

"That's enough of it," he shouted, as red as a turkey-cock, the veins
standing out on his forehead.

And he dropped the _Lucretius_ into his jacket pocket.

Straightway old Sariette flew at the antiquary, assailed him with sudden
fury, and, frail and weakly as he was, butted him back into young
Octavie's arm-chair.

Guinardon, in furious amazement, belched forth the most horrible abuse
on the old maniac and gave him a punch that sent him staggering back
four paces against the _Coronation of the Virgin_, by Fra Angelico,
which fell down with a crash. Sariette returned to the charge, and tried
to drag the book out of the pocket in which it lay hid. This time Pere
Guinardon would really have floored him had he not been blinded by the
blood that was rushing to his head, and hit sideways at the work-table
of his absent mistress. Sariette fastened himself on to his bewildered
adversary, held him down in the arm-chair, and with his little bony
hands clutched him by the neck, which, red as it was already, became a
deep crimson. Guinardon struggled to g