“You have nothing, then,” said I, with that calmness which arises from wisdom, and which is humiliating to those Barbarians whom the genius of Menu has never enlightened.
The learned man crossed his hands and inclined his head, shutting his eyes, which means “Nothing,” in the language of the universe.
Nevertheless, I continued my requests.
“Since you have no books in this ‘vast depôt of all human knowledge,’ have you any maps?”
“Oh, maps!” said he, with the smile of a resuscitated savant, “we have all kinds of maps, from the map of the Roman Emperor Theodosius to that of ‘dame de cœur.’”
This answer, I have since been told, is a bon mot, apparently made by this man of study to relieve his mind of ennui.
“Will you then show me,” said I, “the map of the Celestial Empire, called Tai-thsing-i-thoung icki?”
The Madras again covered the visage of the savant; the box of opium was exhibited, and a shake of the head, covered with a white powder, announced to me that the map I sought did not exist at this vast depôt.
“Wait,” said he to me, with a joyous expression, “I can, nevertheless, show you a few Chinese books which will please you. Follow me, lao-yé.”
I followed him.