"As you please," replied Apostolo. "And I am all the more willing to consent to it as this inspection will not take us long. I have one work only worthy of being examined by connoisseurs like you. But what a work it is," he added, taking out of its triple wrapping an impressive looking folio. "What a work indeed," he went on, looking solemn, after he had quite detached it from its prison of wrapping paper. "A work to marvel at…" And he held out the book to Abbot Lowrich while giving him a look full of confidence and pride.
"Damnation!" murmured Lowrich, after having run his eye, as was his wont, over the unfamiliar treasure. Then he turned to me, but very different from what he had been the moment before, his arms hanging down at his side, his eye downcast, his forehead pale. "Damnation!" he muttered in French in a voice hardly raised and so that he could only be heard by me. "It's that damn book that I undertook to give you if it was here, the first edition of the Poliphilus… It's here, the traitor, and as fine as if it had just been printed. Things like this only happen to me…"
"Calm down," I answered, laughing. "Perhaps we'll get it for a price less than you think. And how much is Master Apostolo asking for this rarity?"
"Ah!" said Apostolo. "Times are hard and money is scarce. In times gone by I'd have asked fifty zecchini for it from Prince Eugene, sixty from the Duke of Abrantès, and a hundred from an Englishman. But today I have to give it away for four hundred wretched Milan pounds, or the exact equivalent of four hundred French francs. I can't even knock two quarantani off the price."
"May four hundred starving rats devour your books from first to last!" Lowrich interrupted furiously. "Who the devil has ever had four hundred francs asked of them for a bad book?"
"How dare you call this a bad book!" Apostolo spat back, almost as agitated as Lowrich. "It's a first edition of 1467, the first to appear in Treviso, and perhaps in Italy, a true masterpiece of typography and engraving, the illustrations in which can only be attributed to Raphael, an admirable work, the name of whose author has remained a mystery up until now, despite all erudite research, a one-off, or almost unique, that you yourself, abbot, perhaps did not know existed. And it pleases you to call that a bad book!"
Lowrich had calmed down during this vehement tirade. He had quietly sat down, placing his hat on the bookseller's table, and was wiping the sweat from his brow like a man exhausted by long and hard effort who has just found a good place to rest at his leisure.
"Have you finished, Apostolo?" he said in a calm tone of voice, in which, however, there could be detected a trace of I know not what malignant satisfaction. "The best thing I can hope for you is that you do no more to harm your kudos and your business interests from now on than you already have done. You have just said four very foolish things in as many words. If you had persisted, it would have taken me more than a day to recapitulate them one by one, and to do that would not leave me enough time to dictate that pot boiler, so, first of all: it isn't true that this book was printed in Treviso in 1467. It's an edition that was printed in Venice in 1499 from which the final page has been taken to deceive you as to the date of publication, and I didn't at first take note of that defect, which reduces the value of your copy by more than half, and therefore consider yourself fortunate in that I am able to remedy this fault, for blind chance allowed me to find the other day among some wrapping paper this precious end flyleaf, which I carefully kept in reserve for an opportunity to use it that I did not think would come so soon, so we'll presently see at what price I can let you have it."
So saying, Abbot Lowrich took from its cardboard cover the missing plagula, and carefully fitted it into the book. "This page fits my book perfectly," said Apostolo, "but I have to admit that it does change the nature of it somewhat. Where the devil did I get the idea that this was a Treviso first edition?"
"Never mind that," Lowrich continued, "we haven't finished yet. Let's get on to the second foolish thing you said: it isn't true that the drawings in this book can be attributed to Raphael, whether the edition dates back to 1467, or was only published in 1499, as has just been proved to you. Raphael was born in Urbino in 1483 and even the greatest admirers of this sublime painter cannot imagine him drawing so correctly and elegantly sixteen years before his birth. It must have been a different Raphael who drew these fine things, and as to him, my good Apostolo, there's only me who knows who he was. Wait. I've only counted up to two so far. Now we come to your third glaring error of fact: it isn't true that the author of this book has been till today a mystery to scholars. On the contrary, all scholars know, and the majority of non-scholars are not ignorant of the fact that it is the work of Francesco Colonna or Columna, a Dominican monk in the monastery of Treviso, where he died in 1467, whatever some scatterbrained writers of life stories have to say on the matter, who confuse him with Doctor Francesco di Colonia, whose name is almost homonymous with him and who survived him for all of sixty years. Both of them are buried only a few hundred paces from your shop, Apostolo. In view of what I've just said, I do not need to show you that you have made a fourth huge mistake, worse than the other three, by imagining that I did not know of the existence of your splendid tome, and I really don't know what's stopping me from proving to you that I know it by heart."