M. Charnot spoke with an exasperating half-smile.

I ought to have laughed, to be sure; I ought to have shown sense enough at any rate to hold my tongue and not to answer the gibes of this vindictive man of learning.  Instead, I was stupid enough to be nettled and to lose my head.

“Well,” I retorted, “I must have a paying profession.  That one or another—­what does it matter?  Not everybody can belong to the Institute, as your daughter remarked; not everybody can afford himself the luxury of publishing, at his own expense, works that sell twenty-seven copies or so.”

I expected a thunderbolt, an explosion.  Not a bit of it.  M. Charnot smiled outright with an air of extreme geniality.

“I perceive, sir, that you are given to gossiping with the booksellers.”

“Why, yes, sir, now and then.”

“It’s a very pretty trait, at your age, to be already so strong in bibliography.  You will permit me, nevertheless, to add something to your present stock of notions.  A large sale is one thing to look at, but not the right thing.  Twenty-seven copies of a book, when read by twenty-seven men of intelligence, outweigh a popular success.  Would you believe that one of my friends had no more than eight copies printed of a mathematical treatise?  Three of these he has given away.  The other five are still unsold.  And that man, sir, is the first mathematician in France!”

Mademoiselle Jeanne had taken it differently.  With lifted chin and reddened cheek she shot this sentence at me from the edge of a lip disdainfully puckered: 

“There are such things as ‘successes of esteem,’ sir!”

Alas!  I knew that well, and I had no need of this additional lesson to teach me the rudeness of my remark, to make me feel that I was a brute, an idiot, hopelessly lost in the opinion of M. Charnot and his daughter.  It was cruel, all the same.  Nothing was left for me but to hurry my departure.  I got up to go.

“But,” said M. Charnot in the smoothest of tones, “I do not think we have yet discussed the question that brought you here.”

“I should hesitate, sir, to trespass further on your time.”

“Never mind that.  Your question concerns?”

“The costume of the Latini Juniani.”

“Difficult to answer, like most questions of dress.  Have you read the work, in seventeen volumes, by the German, Friedchenhausen?”

“No.”

“You must have read, at any rate, Smith, the Englishman, on ancient costume?”

“Nor that either.  I only know Italian.”

“Well, then, look through two or three treatises on numismatics, the ‘Thesaurus Morellianus’, or the ‘Praestantiora Numismata’, of Valliant, or Banduri, or Pembrock, or Pellerin.  You may chance upon a scent.”

“Thank you, thank you, sir!”

He saw me to the door.

As I turned to go I noticed that his daughter was standing motionless still, with the face of an angry Diana.  She held between her fingers the recovered spiral.