"Because it is exceedingly rare."
"That little old book exceedingly rare?"
"Do you not know that it is an Elzevir, monsieur?"
"No."
"Do you not know what an Elzevir is?" exclaimed my neighbour, overwhelmed with astonishment.
"No, monsieur, no; but do not be alarmed at such a trifle: since I came to Paris not quite a week ago, I have discovered that I am ignorant of nearly everything. Tell me what it is, please: I am not well enough off to afford myself masters, I am too old to go back to college and I have made up my mind to take the whole world as my teacher—a teacher whom report says is even more learned than Voltaire."
"Ah! ah! quite right, monsieur," said my neighbour, looking at me with some interest; "and if you profit by the lessons that teacher will give you, you will become a great philosopher, as well as a great savant. Well, what is an Elzevir?... First of all, and in particular, this little volume that you see is one; or, in general, every book that came from the establishment of Louis Elzevir and of his successors, booksellers of Amsterdam. But do you know what a bibliomaniac is?"
"I do not know Greek, monsieur."
"You know your ignorance and that is something. The bibliomaniac—root, βιβλιο, book; μανια, madness—is a variety of the species man—species bipes et genus homo."
"I understand."