repeated the unhappy librarian. "Monsieur, if you opened my breast, you
would find that question engraved upon my heart."

Unmoved by this powerful utterance, Monsieur d'Esparvieu continued with
pent-up fury:

"And you have discovered no single sign that would put you on the track
of the thief, Monsieur Sariette? You have no suspicion, not the
faintest idea, of the way these things have come to pass? You have seen
nothing, heard nothing, noticed nothing, learnt nothing? You must grant
this is unbelievable. Think, Monsieur Sariette, think of the possible
consequences of this unheard-of theft, committed under your eyes. A
document of inestimable value in the history of the human mind
disappears. Who has stolen it? Why has it been stolen? Who will gain by
it? Those who have got possession of it doubtless know that they will be
unable to dispose of it in France. They will go and sell it in America
or Germany. Germany is greedy for such literary monuments. Should the
correspondence of Gassendi with Gabriel Naude go over to Berlin, if it
is published there by German savants, what a disaster, nay, what a
scandal! Monsieur Sariette, have you not thought of that?..."

Beneath the stroke of an accusation all the more cruel in that he
brought it against himself, Monsieur Sariette stood stupefied, and was
silent. And Monsieur d'Esparvieu continued to overwhelm him with bitter
reproaches.

"And you make no effort. You devise nothing to find these inestimable
treasures. Make enquiries, bestir yourself, Monsieur Sariette; use your
wits. It is well worth while."

And Monsieur d'Esparvieu went out, throwing an icy glance at his
librarian.

Monsieur Sariette sought the lost books and manuscripts in every spot
where he had already sought them a hundred times, and where they could
not possibly be. He even looked in the coke-box and under the leather
seat of his arm-chair. When midday struck he mechanically went
downstairs. At the foot of the stairs he met his old pupil Maurice, with
whom he exchanged a bow. But he only saw men and things as through a
mist.

The broken-hearted curator had already reached the hall when Maurice
called him back.

"Monsieur Sariette, while I think of it, do have the books removed that
are choking up my garden-house."

"What books, Maurice?"

"I could not tell you, Monsieur Sariette, but there are some in Hebrew,
all worm-eaten, with a whole heap of old papers. They are in my way. You
can't turn ro