“These books were the cream of many generations, some dating back before the time of Columbus.”
Lucile, thinking of the book of ancient Portland charts, allowed her gaze for a second to stray to the shelf where it reposed.
Again the man threw her a questioning look, but once more went on with his narrative of his life in far-off France.
“Of all the treasures of field, garden, woods or chateau, the ones most prized by me were those ancient books. So, year after year I guarded them well, guarded them until an old man, in possession of all that was once my father’s, I used to sit of an evening looking off at the fading hills at eventide with one of those books in my lap.
“Then came the war.” Again his hand went up to dispel the imaginary mist. “The war took my two sons. They never came back. It took my three grandsons. We gave gladly, for was it not our beloved France that was in danger? They, too, never returned.”
The old man’s hand trembled as he brushed away the imaginary mist.
“I borrowed money to give to France. I mortgaged my land, my cattle, my chateau; only my treasure of books I gave no man a chance to take. They must be mine until I died. They of all the treasures I must keep.
“One night,” his voice grew husky, “one night there came a terrible explosion. The earth rocked. Stones of the castle fell all about the yard. The chateau was in ruins. It was a bomb from an airplane.
“Someway the library was not touched. It alone was safe. How thankful I was that it was so. It was now all that was left.
“I took my library to a small lodging in the village. Then, when the war was ended, I packed all my books in strong boxes and started for Paris.”