The councillor had translated and commented upon Persius, and still studied him daily. By dint of penetrating into the mind of this author, he had come to assimilate him so constantly in his thoughts, that he applied, continually, to himself and others, quotations borrowed from that satirical stoic.
This admiration bordered on monomania. Even as by the aid of a microscope the observer discovers unknown worlds in a blade of grass or a drop of water, so the exalted imagination of the doctor found in the most simple words of his cherished author the most profound significances.
The councillor proceeded, then, with slow steps towards the place of his daily walk. Approaching the overthrown tree which generally served him as a seat, he heard some one speaking in a loud voice. . . .
Annoyed by finding his place occupied, he stopped behind a holly-bush.
But what was his surprise, when he heard a young and sweet voice reciting with admirable accentuation and elegant expression, these verses from the first Satire of Persius:
"O curas hominum! O quantum est in rebus inane!" etc.[3]
The councillor held his breath, listened, and when the voice ceased, he quickly advanced to see who was this stranger who appeared to enjoy so much his favorite author.
He saw a young man negligently dressed, with rolls of paper thrust into the pockets of his old black coat; beside him was a voluminous quarto. The exterior of Létorière, for it was he, gave an instant impression of a poor poet; a narrow cravat of coarse linen, an old felt hat, rusty with age, a pale and half-famished countenance; nothing was wanting to this new metamorphosis.
At sight of the old councillor, the Marquis respectfully arose.
"Ah, young man, is not our Persius the king of poets?" cried Sphex, eagerly, striking the palm of his hand on the Elzevir which he drew from his pocket, and approaching Létorière with a radiant air.