“There,” said Theodore, passing the white sign of an active and ingenious bookseller in the Place du Louvre, “that sign has made my heart palpitate for a long time; but I no longer see it without a sensation of pain, since Techener has reprinted with Tastu’s characters, on showy paper, and under an enticing cover, the gothic marvels of Jehan Bonfons of Paris, Jehan Mareschal of Lyons, and Jehan de Chaney of Avignon, unobtainable trifles until he produced them in delightful facsimile. Snow-white paper fills me with horror, my friend; and there is nothing that I like less, except this same paper when it has received from the stroke of a cruel pressman, the deplorable imprint of the visions and idiocies of this iron age.”
Theodore sighed more frequently, and was rapidly growing worse.
We thus came in the Rue des Bons-Enfants, to the literary bazaar where Silvestre held his auction sales. It was a place honored by learned men, which has seen more priceless curios during a quarter of a century than the library of the Ptolemies ever held (which library perhaps was not burned by Omar, whatever our twaddling historians may say). I had never seen so many splendid books on exhibition.
“Unfortunate people who have to sell them,” I said to Theodore.
“They are dead,” he said, “or it would kill them.”
But the hall was empty. No one was to be seen except the indefatigable M. Thour, who was patiently cataloguing upon cards the titles of the books which had escaped his notice the previous day. The happiest among all men is he who has at his command, and accurately arranged, a faithful transcription of the title-pages of all known books. It is nothing to him if all the productions of printing are destroyed in the next revolution which the perfection of progress promises us. He can leave to posterity the complete catalogue of the universal library. He would have admirable forethought in seeing from afar the necessity for compiling this inventory of civilization. A few years more, and civilization will be no longer spoken about.
“God forgive me, Theodore,” said Silvestre; “you have mistaken the day. Those books that you see were sold yesterday in the last session, and are waiting for the porter to deliver them.” Theodore reeled and turned pale. His face assumed the tint of old citron morocco. I felt the blow that had struck him, to the bottom of my own heart.
“It is no matter,” he said, with an altered manner. “I recognize only my usual ill luck in this bad news. But to whom do these things belong, these pearls and diamonds, these wonderful riches in which the libraries of de Thou and Grolier would have gloried?”