“No flies enter a closed mouth,” replied the old conspirator, justifying the proverb by the manner in which he shut his toothless mouth, into which, indeed, at that moment, neither a fly nor the tiniest grain of dust could enter.

“An excellent saying,” returned the Marquis, with a laugh, “and one I should like to see engraved on the facade of all the modern parliaments.  But between your poetry and your adages have you taken the time to write for me to that bookseller at Vienna, who owns the last copy of the pamphlet on the trial of the bandit Hafner?”

“Patience,” said the merchant.  “I will write.”

“And my document on the siege of Rome, by Bourbon, those three notarial deeds which you promised me, have you dislodged them?”

“Patience, patience,” repeated the merchant, adding, as he pointed with a comical mixture of irony and of despair to the disorder in his shop, “How can you expect me to know where I am in the midst of all this?”

“Patience, patience,” repeated Montfanon.  “For a month you have been singing that old refrain.  If, instead of composing wretched verses, you would attend to your correspondence, and, if, instead of buying continually, you would classify this confused mass . . . .  But,” said he, more seriously, with a brusque gesture, “I am wrong to reproach you for your purchases, since I have come to speak to you of one of the last.  Cardinal Guerillot told me that you showed him, the other day, an interesting prayer-book, although in very bad condition, which you found in Tuscany.  Where is it?”

“Here it is,” said Ribalta, who, leaping over several piles of volumes and thrusting aside with his foot an enormous heap of cartoons, opened the drawer of a tottering press.  In that drawer he rummaged among an accumulation of odd, incongruous objects:  old medals and old nails, bookbindings and discolored engravings, a large leather box gnawed by insects, on the outside of which could be distinguished a partly effaced coat-of-arms.  He opened that box and extended toward Montfanon a volume covered with leather and studded.  One of the clasps was broken, and when the Marquis began to turn over the pages, he could see that the interior had not been better taken care of than the exterior.  Colored prints had originally ornamented the precious work; they were almost effaced.  The yellow parchment had been torn in places.  Indeed, it was a shapeless ruin which the curious nobleman examined, however, with the greatest care, while Ribalta made up his mind to speak.

“A widow of Montalcino, in Tuscany, sold it to me.  She asked me an enormous price, and it is worth it, although it is slightly damaged.  For those are miniatures by Matteo da Siena, who made them for Pope Pius II Piccolomini.  Look at the one which represents Saint Blaise, who is blessing the lions and panthers.  It is the best preserved.  Is it not fine?”