"Monsieur has not finished the letter he was writing, and now he has a visitor; he told me to ask you to wait a little while, if you can."
"Yes, yes; so long as monsieur wishes," Paul replied.
"Stay here, then; it's pleasanter, and nobody goes through this room."
Left alone, Paul sat down and glanced timidly about. Against all four walls were shelves filled with books, which were protected from the dust by sliding glass doors; but several of the doors were open, and the books were at the service of those who cared for them.
The young man gazed for some time, with something like envy, at those treasures of wit and learning gathered in so small a space; he read the names of Voltaire, Rousseau, Corneille, Molière, Montaigne, La Fontaine, and said to himself:
"Mon Dieu! how fortunate anybody is to own all these books! to be in such good company! for an author's mind is himself, his works are his thoughts, and when reading him one can imagine that he is listening to him; that it is he who is speaking. What a blessed thing is genius! it does not die! A man can never have a moment's ennui when he is in the company of those men!"
Paul heaved a sigh, and, thinking that he might have a long while to wait in the library, concluded that he would do no harm by opening one of the books which were before him; so he put out his hand and took the volume that was nearest him. It was La Rochefoucauld's Maximes; he resumed his seat, and began to read it with avidity.
He had been in the library quite a long while, but he was still reading, and the time passed very quickly. Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder, and, turning his head, saw Monsieur Vermoncey, who said to him with a smile:
"Ah! I have caught you."
The young man blushed, and hastily rose to his feet.