Yes, he loved his books with passion and tenderness; but not having means wherewith to buy them, he read every book that was entrusted to him to bind.  Not being the collector of the volumes in his workshop, chance alone being responsible for the heterogeneous display,—­to-day a sentimental love-tale, to-morrow a medical treatise, the next day a theological work,—­it followed that the poor little bookbinder’s head was filled with as confused a mass of lore, religious and profane, as ever cast in its lot in the sum of human knowledge.  The more a book pleased him, the longer did the owner have to wait for it; and it was only after repeated insistence that the coveted volume was placed in the rightful possessor’s hands.

Naturally, Kalimann’s prices varied according to the work required, or the cost of material; but when it came to the question of ornamental finishing or decorative impressions, his customer’s orders were totally ignored, and he it was who decided upon the finishing according to the subject or the value of the work.

When he carried the books back to his customers, he would always tie them up carefully in a large colored handkerchief, and, while unwrapping them, would embrace the opportunity of expressing his views upon their contents; at times, however, he regarded the open assertion of his opinion as dangerous, and could not be induced to pass judgment.  On these occasions he never failed to say with a sorrowful shake of the head, “While we are living we may not speak, when we are dead it is too late!”

There lived in Hort at this time a wealthy and pretty widow, Mrs. Zoe Barkany by name, originally Sarah Samuel.  From her, Kalimann would get his novels and classical literature; these he bound in pale blues and greens and brilliant scarlets, ornamenting them with a golden lyre, surmounted with an arrow-pierced heart.  He worked upon these bindings con amore, and, transported by his love of the aesthetic, would occasionally give vent to his enthusiasm, and venture observations bordering upon the chivalrous.  In each and every heroine of the plays and romances he devoured, he could see the captivating face and figure of Mrs. Barkany.

Entering the fair widow’s garden one morning, and discovering her seated on a rustic bench, dressed in white, a guitar in her hand, he exclaimed, with a reverential bow:  “Ah, mon Dieu, there sits Princess Eboli!” (the heroine in “Don Carlos").  Another time seeing her in a. morning gown of Turkish stuff, he declared she must be sitting for the picture of Rebecca in “Ivanhoe.”  In short, Mrs. Barkany very soon learned to anticipate her bookbinder’s speeches, and would say, with a pretty smile:  “Well, am I Esmeralda to-day?” or, “I wager that I am reminding you of the Duchess; tell me, am I right or not?”