“Certainly, I said so in my telegram,” he exclaimed, addressing M. Massiban, who, in his annoyance, was walking up and down the room and looking out of the tall windows. “Certainly—or, at least, my daughter thought she had seen the title among the thousands of books that lumber up the library, upstairs—for I don’t care about reading myself—I don’t even read the papers. My daughter does, sometimes, but only when there is nothing the matter with Georges, her remaining son! As for me, as long as my tenants pay their rents and my leases are kept up—! You see my account-books: I live in them, gentlemen; and I confess that I know absolutely nothing whatever about that story of which you wrote to me in your letter, M. Massiban—”
Isidore Beautrelet, nerve-shattered at all this talk, interrupted him bluntly:
“I beg your pardon, monsieur, but the book—”
“My daughter has looked for it. She looked for it all day yesterday.”
“Well?”
“Well, she found it; she found it a few hours ago. When you arrived—”
“And where is it?”
“Where is it? Why, she put it on that table—there it is—over there—”
Isidore gave a bound. At one end of the table, on a muddled heap of papers, lay a little book bound in red morocco. He banged his fist down upon it, as though he were forbidding anybody to touch it—and also a little as though he himself dared not take it up.
“Well!” cried Massiban, greatly excited.