The other apartment of two rooms was occupied by a single man.  He was a Russian or Pole who almost always returned with a package of books, and passed many hours writing near the patio window.  From the very first the Spaniard took him to be a mysterious man, probably a very distinguished one—­a true hero of a novel.  The foreign appearance of this Tchernoff made a great impression upon him—­his dishevelled beard, and oily locks, his spectacles upon a large nose that seemed deformed by a dagger-thrust.  There emanated from him, like an invisible nimbus, an odor of cheap wine and soiled clothing.

When Argensola caught a glimpse of him through the service door he would say to himself, “Ah, Friend Tchernoff is returning,” and thereupon he would saunter out to the stairway in order to have a chat with his neighbor.  For a long time the stranger discouraged all approach to his quarters, which fact led the Spaniard to infer that he devoted himself to alchemy and kindred mysteries.  When he finally was allowed to enter he saw only books, many books, books everywhere—­scattered on the floor, 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.