“It was half-past ten; I went to the window. As I have said, it was a beautiful day. It appeared as if the sun had won a permanent victory over the clouds. The passers-by all looked happy, or, at least, contented.
“Like everybody else, I experienced a desire to take the air elsewhere than at my window, so I dressed, and went out.
“As chance would have it—for when I go out for a walk I don’t care whether it is in one street or another—as chance would have it, I say, I passed the Bibliothèque Royale.
“I went in, and, as usual, found Pâris, who came up to me with a charming smile.
“‘Give me,’ said I, ‘the “Memoirs of La Fère.”’
“He looked at me for a moment as if he thought I was crazy; then, with the utmost gravity, he said, ‘You know very well they don’t exist, because you said yourself they did!’
“His speech, though brief, was decidedly pithy.
“By way of thanks I made Pâris a gift of the autograph I had received from Carcassonne.
“When he had finished reading it, he said, ‘If it is any consolation to you to know it, you are not the first who has come to ask for the “Memoirs of La Fère”; I have already seen at least thirty people who came solely for that purpose, and no doubt they hate you for sending them on a fool’s errand.’
“As I was in search of material for a novel, and as there are people who declare novels are to be found ready-made, I asked for the catalogue.