our affairs? Ah, if we were to calculate closely,
how much you owe us! Was it not we who gave you Mazarin, Massena,
Bonaparte and many others who have gone to die in your army in Russia, in
Spain and elsewhere? And at Dijon? Did not Garibaldi stupidly fight for
you, who would have taken from him his country? We are quits on the score
of service . . . . But take your prayer-book-good-evening, good-evening.
You can pay me later."

And he literally pushed the Marquis out of the stall, gesticulating and
throwing down books on all sides. Montfanon found himself in the street
before having been able to draw from his pocket the money he had got
ready.

"What a madman! My God, what a madman!" said he to himself, with a laugh.
He left the shop at a brisk pace, with the precious book under his arm.
He understood, from having frequently come in contact with them, those
southern natures, in which swindling and chivalry elbow without harming
one another--Don Quixotes who set their own windmills in motion. He asked
himself:

"How much would he still make after playing the magnamimous with me?" His
question was never to be answered, nor was he to know that Ribalta had
bought the rare volume among a heap of papers, engravings, and old books,
paying twenty-five francs for all. Moreover, two encounters which
followed one upon the other on leaving the shop, prevented him from
meditating on that problem of commercial psychology. He paused for a
moment at the end of the street to cast a glance at the Place d'Espagne,
which he loved as one of those corners unchanged for the last thirty
years. On that morning in the early days of May, the square, with its
sinuous edge, was indeed charming with bustle and light, with the houses
which gave it a proper contour, with the double staircase of La
Trinite-des-Monts lined with idlers, with the water which gushed from a
large fountain in the form of a bark placed in the centre-one of the
innumerable caprices in which the fancy of Bernin, that illusive
decorator, delighted to indulge. Indeed, at that hour and in that light,
the fountain was as natural in effect as were the nimble hawkers who held
in their extended arms baskets filled with roses, narcissus, red
anemones, fragile cyclamens and dark pansies. Barefooted, with sparkling
eyes, entreaties upon their lips, they glided among the carriages which
passed along rapidly, fewer than in the height of the season, still quite
numerous, for spring was