heaped upon benches, piled in corners, overflowing on to broken-down
chairs, old tables, and a bed that was only made up now and then when
the owner, alarmed by the increasing invasion of dust and cobwebs, was
obliged to call in the aid of his friend, the concierge.

Argensola finally realized, not without a certain disenchantment, that
there was nothing mysterious in the life of the man. What he was writing
near the window were merely translations, some of them ordered, others
volunteer work for the socialist periodicals. The only marvellous thing
about him was the quantity of languages that he knew.

"He knows them all," said the Spaniard, when describing their neighbor
to Desnoyers. "He has only to hear of a new one to master it. He
holds the key, the secret of all languages, living or dead. He
speaks Castilian as well as we do, and yet he has never been in a
Spanish-speaking country."

Argensola again felt a thrill of mystery upon reading the titles of many
of the volumes. The majority were old books, many of them in languages
that he was not able to decipher, picked up for a song at second-hand
shops or on the book stands installed upon the parapets of the Seine.
Only a man holding the key of tongues could get together such volumes.
An atmosphere of mysticism, of superhuman insight, of secrets intact
for many centuries appeared to emanate from these heaps of dusty volumes
with worm-eaten leaves. And mixed with these ancient tomes were others
red and conspicuous, pamphlets of socialistic propaganda, leaflets in
all the languages of Europe and periodicals--many periodicals, with
revolutionary titles.

Tchernoff did not appear to enjoy visits and conversation. He would