which I was reading--edited in 1824 by Mr. Thompson, librarian to
Sir Thomas Raleigh--sins, it is true, by excess of brevity, and
does not offer that character of exactitude which the archivists
of my own generation were the first to introduce into works upon
diplomatics and paleography. It leaves a good deal to be desired
and to be divined. This is perhaps why I find myself aware, while
reading it, of a state of mind which in nature more imaginative than
mine might be called reverie. I had allowed myself to drift away
this gently upon the current of my thoughts, when my housekeeper
announced, in a tone of ill-humor, that Monsieur Coccoz desired
to speak with me.

In fact, some one had slipped into the library after her. He was a
little man--a poor little man of puny appearance, wearing a thin
jacket. He approached me with a number of little bows and smiles.
But he was very pale, and, although still young and alert, he looked
ill. I thought as I looked at him, of a wounded squirrel. He
carried under his arm a green toilette, which he put upon a chair;
then unfastening the four corners of the toilette, he uncovered
a heap of little yellow books.

"Monsieur," he then said to me, "I have not the honour to be known
to you. I am a book-agent, Monsieur. I represent the leading
houses of the capital, and in the hope that you will kindly honour
me with your confidence, I take the liberty to offer you a few
novelties."

Kind gods! just gods! such novelties as the homunculus Coccoz showed
me! The first volume that he put in my hand was "L'Histoire de la
Tour de Nesle," with the amours of Marguerite de Bourgogne and the