“I haven’t told you of the Grefin von Wentzel; I don’t know what put her into my head. There has been nothing like it since the world began. Mind you—a real live aristocratic Grefin with a hundred quarterings!”
He proceeded to relate a most scandalous, but highly amusing story. An amazing, incredible tale; but it seemed familiar.
“That,” said I, at last, “is incident for incident a scene out of L’Histoire Comique de Francion.”
“Never heard of it,” said Pasquale, flashing.
“It was the first French novel of manners published about 1620 and written by a man called Sorel. I don’t dream of accusing you of plagiarism, my dear fellow—that’s absurd. But the ridiculous coincidence struck me. You and the Grefin and the rest of you were merely reenacting a three hundred year old farce.”
“Rubbish!” said Pasquale.
“I’ll show you,” said I.
After wandering for a moment or two round my shelves, I remembered that the book was in the dining-room. I left Pasquale and went downstairs. I knew it was on one of the top shelves near the ceiling. Now, my dining-room is lit by one shaded electrolier over the table, so that the walls of the room are in deep shadow. This has annoyed me many times when I have been book-hunting. I really must have some top lights put in. To stand on a chair and burn wax matches in order to find a particular book is ignominious and uncomfortable. The successive illumination of four wax matches did not shed itself upon L’Histoire Comique de Francion.
If there is one thing that frets me more than another, it is not to be able to lay my hand upon a book. I knew Francion was there on the top shelves, and rather than leave it undiscovered, I would have spent the whole night in search. I suppose every one has a harmless lunacy. This is mine. I must have hunted for that book for twenty minutes, pulling out whole blocks of volumes and peering with lighted matches behind, until my hands were covered with dust. At last I found it had fallen to the rear of a ragged regiment of French novels, and in triumph I took it to the area of light on the table and turned up the scene in question. Keeping my thumb in the place I returned to the drawing-room.
“I’m sorry to have—” I began. I stopped short. I could scarcely believe my eyes. There, conversing with Pasquale and lolling on the sofa, as if she had known him for years, was Carlotta.