that M. de Latour was walking on the quai of the Louvre. Among the
volumes in a shop, he noticed a shabby little copy of the "Imitatio
Christi." M. de Latour, like other bibliophiles, was not in the
habit of examining stray copies of this work, except when they were
of the Elzevir size, for the Elzevirs published a famous undated
copy of the "Imitatio," a book which brings considerable prices.
However, by some lucky chance, some Socratic daemon whispering, may
be, in his ear, he picked up the little dingy volume of the last
century. It was of a Paris edition, 1751, but what was the name on
the fly-leaf. M. de Latour read a J. J. Rousseau. There was no
mistake about it, the good bibliophile knew Rousseau's handwriting
perfectly well; to make still more sure he paid his seventy-five
centimes for the book, and walked across the Pont des Arts, to his
bookbinder's, where he had a copy of Rousseau's works, with a
facsimile of his handwriting. As he walked, M. de Latour read in
his book, and found notes of Rousseau's on the margin. The
facsimile proved that the inscription was genuine. The happy de
Latour now made for the public office in which he was a functionary,
and rushed into the bureau of his friend the Marquis de V. The
Marquis, a man of great strength of character, recognised the
signature of Rousseau with but little display of emotion. M. de
Latour now noticed some withered flowers among the sacred pages; but
it was reserved for a friend to discover in the faded petals
Rousseau's favourite flower, the periwinkle. Like a true Frenchman,
like Rousseau himself in his younger days, M. de Latour had not
recognised the periwinkle when he saw it. That night, so excited
was M. de Latour, he never closed an eye! What puzzled him was that
he could not remember, in all Rousseau's works, a single allusion to
the "Imitatio Christi." Time went on, the old book was not rebound,
but kept piously in a case of Russia leather. M. de Latour did not