I sat there, abandoned to my sad reflections, when one of the attendants, whom I had not seen approaching, touched me on the shoulder.

“The keeper wishes to speak to you.”

I rose up and went.  The terrible reader had gone back to his seat.

“It was you, sir, I believe, who blotted the folio just now?”

“It was, sir.”

“You did not do so on purpose?”

“Most certainly not, sir!  I am indeed sorry for he accident.”

“You ought to be.  The volume is almost unique; and the blot, too, for that matter.  I never saw such a blot!  Will you, please, leave me your Christian name, surname, profession, and address?”

I wrote down, “Fabien Jean Jacques Mouillard, barrister, 91 Rue de Rennes.”

“Is that all?” I asked.

“Yes, sir, that is all for the present.  But I warn you that Monsieur Charnot is exceedingly annoyed.  It might be as well to offer him some apology.”

“Monsieur Charnot?”

“Yes.  It is Monsieur Charnot, of the Institute, who was reading the Early Text.”

“Merciful Heavens!” I ejaculated, as I went back to my seat; “this must be the man of whom my tutor spoke, the other day!  Monsieur Flamaran belongs to the Academy of Moral and Political Science, the other to the Institute of Inscriptions and the Belles-Lettres.  Charnot?  Yes, I have those two syllables in my ear.  The very last time I saw Monsieur Flamaran he let fall ’my very good friend Charnot, of the ‘Inscriptions.’  They are friends.  And I am in a pretty situation; threatened with I don’t know what by the Library—­for the keeper told me positively that this was all ’for the present’—­but not for the future; threatened to be disgraced in my tutor’s eyes; and all because this learned man’s temper is upset.

“I must apologize.  Let me see, what could I say to Monsieur Charnot?  As a matter of fact, it’s to the Early Text that I ought to apologize.  I have spilled no ink over Monsieur Charnot.  He is spotless, collar and cuffs; the blot, the splashes, all fell on the Text.  I will say to him, ’Sir, I am exceedingly sorry to have interrupted you so unfortunately in your learned studies!  ‘Learned studies’ will tickle his vanity, and should go far to appease him.”

I was on the point of rising.  M. Charnot anticipated me.

Grief is not always keenest when most recent.  As he approached I saw he was more irritated and upset than at the moment of the accident.  Above his pinched, cleanshaven chin his lips shot out with an angry twitch.  The portfolio shook under his arm.  He flung me a look full of tragedy and went on his way.

Well, well; go your way, M. Charnot!  One doesn’t offer apologies to a man in his wrath.  You shall have them by-and-bye, when we meet again.

CHAPTER II

THE JUNIAN LATINS

December 28, 1884.