WHEREIN PÈRE SARIETTE DISCOVERS HIS MISSING TREASURES
Next morning Monsieur Sariette entered Monsieur René d'Esparvieu's study
without knocking. He raised his arms to the heavens, his few hairs were
standing straight up on his head. His eyes were big with terror. In
husky tones he stammered out the dreadful news. A very old manuscript of
Flavius Josephus; sixty volumes of all sizes; a priceless jewel, namely,
a _Lucretius_ adorned with the arms of Philippe de Vendôme, Grand Prior
of France, with notes in Voltaire's own hand; a manuscript of Richard
Simon, and a set of Gassendi's correspondence with Gabriel Naudé,
comprising two hundred and thirty-eight unpublished letters, had
disappeared. This time the owner of the library was alarmed.
He mounted in haste to the abode of the philosophers and the globes, and
there with his own eyes confirmed the magnitude of the disaster.
There were yawning gaps on many a shelf. He searched here and there,
opened cupboards, dragged out brooms, dusters, and fire-extinguishers,
rattled the shovel in the coke fire, shook out Monsieur Sariette's best
frock-coat that was hanging in the cloak-room, and then stood and gazed
disconsolately at the empty places left by the Gassendi portfolios.
For the past half-century the whole learned world had been loudly
clamouring for the publication of this correspondence. Monsieur René
d'Esparvieu had not responded to the universal desire, unwilling either
to assume so heavy a task, or to resign it to others. Having found much
boldness of thought in these letters, and many passages of more
libertine tendency than the piety of the twentieth century could endure,
he preferred that they should remain unpublished; but he felt himself
responsible for their safe-keeping, not only to his country but to the
whole civilized world.
"How can you have allowed yourself to be robbed of such a treasure?" he
asked severely of Monsieur Sariette.
"How can I have allowed myself to be robbed of such a treasure?"
repeated the unhappy librarian. "Monsieur, if you opened my breast, you
would find that question engraved upon my heart."
Unmoved by this powerful utterance, Monsieur d'Esparvieu continued with
pent-up fury:
"And you have discovered no single sign that would put you on the track
of the thief, Monsieur Sariette? You have no suspicion, not the
faintest idea, of the way these things have come to pass? You have seen
nothing, heard nothing, noticed nothing, learnt nothing? You must grant
this is unbelievable. Think, Monsieur Sariette, think of the possible
consequences of this unheard-of theft, committed under your eyes. A
document of inestimable value in the history of the human mind
disappears. Who has stolen it? Why has it been stolen? Who will gain by
it? Those who have got possession of it doubtless know that they will be
unable to dispose of it in France. They will go and sell it in America
or Germany. Germany is greedy for such literary monuments. Should the
correspondence of Gassendi with Gabriel Naudé go over to Berlin, if it
is published there by German savants, what a disaster, nay, what a
scandal! Monsieur Sariette, have you not thought of that?..."
Beneath the stroke of an accusation all the more cruel in that he
brought it against himself, Monsieur Sariette stood stupefied, and was
silent. And Monsieur d'Esparvieu continued to overwhelm him with bitter
reproaches.
"And you make no effort. You devise nothing to find these inestimable
treasures. Make enquiries, bestir yourself, Monsieur Sariette; use your
wits. It is well worth while."
And Monsieur d'Esparvieu went out, throwing an icy glance at his
librarian.
Monsieur Sariette sought the lost books and manuscripts in every spot
where he had already sought them a hundred times, and where they could
not possibly be. He even looked in the coke-box and under the leather
seat of his arm-chair. When midday struck he mechanically went
downstairs. At the foot of the stairs he met his old pupil Maurice, with
whom he exchanged a bow. But he only saw men and things as through a
mist.
The broken-hearted curator had already reached the hall when Maurice
called him back.
"Monsieur Sariette, while I think of it, do have the books removed that
are choking up my garden-house."
"What books, Maurice?"
"I could not tell you, Monsieur Sariette, but there are some in Hebrew,
all worm-eaten, with a whole heap of old papers. They are in my way. You
can't turn round in the passage."
"Who took them there?"
"I'm bothered if I know."
And the young man rushed off to the dining-room, the luncheon gong
having sounded quite a minute ago.
Monsieur Sariette tore away to the summer-house. Maurice had spoken the
truth. About a hundred volumes were there, on tables, on chairs, even on
the floor. When he saw them he was divided betwixt joy and fear, filled
with amazement and anxiety. Happy in the finding of his lost treasure,
dreading to lose it again, and completely overwhelmed with astonishment,
the man of books alternately babbled like an infant and uttered the
hoarse cries of a maniac. He recognised his Hebrew Bibles, his ancient
Talmuds, his very old manuscript of Flavius Josephus, his portfolios of
Gassendi's letters to Gabriel Naudé, and his richest jewel of all, to
wit, _Lucretius_ adorned with the arms of the Grand Prior of France, and
with notes in Voltaire's own hand. He laughed, he cried, he kissed the
morocco, the calf, the parchment, and vellum, even the wooden boards
studded with nails.
As fast as Hippolyte, the manservant, returned with an armful to the
library, Monsieur Sariette, with a trembling hand, restored them piously
to their places.