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and written by a man called Sorel. I don't dream of accusing you
of plagiarism, my dear fellowthat's absurd. But the ridiculous
coincidence struck me. You and the Gr„fin and the rest of you
were merely reenacting a three hundred year old farce.
Rubbish! said Pasquale.
I'll show you, said I.
After wandering for a moment or two round my shelves, I
remembered that the book was in the diningroom. I left Pasquale
and went downstairs. I knew it was on one of the top shelves
near the ceiling. Now, my diningroom is lit by one shaded
electrolier over the table, so that the walls of the room are in
deep shadow. This has annoyed me many times when I have been
bookhunting. I really must have some top lights put in. To
stand on a chair and burn wax matches in order to find a
particular book is ignominious and uncomfortable. The successive
illumination of four wax matches did not shed itself upon
_L'Histoire Comique de Francion_.
If there is one thing that frets me more than another, it is not
to be able to lay my hand upon a book. I knew Francion was there
on the top shelves, and rather than leave it undiscovered, I
would have spent the whole night in search. I suppose every one
has a harmless lunacy. This is mine. I must have hunted for
that book for twenty minutes, pulling out whole blocks of volumes
and peering with lighted matches behind, until my hands were
covered with dust. At last I found it had fallen to the rear of
a ragged regiment of French novels, and in triumph I took it to
the area of light on the table and turned up the scene in
question. Keeping my thumb in the place I returned to the
drawingroom.
I'm sorry to have I began. I stopped short. I could
scarcely believe my eyes. There, conversing with Pasquale and
lolling on the sofa, as if she had known him for years, was
Carlotta.
She must have seen righteous disapprobation on my face, for she
came running up to me.
You see, I've made Miss Carlotta's acquaintance, said Pasquale.
So I perceive, said I.
Stenson told me you wanted me to come to the drawingroom in my
red slippers, said Carlotta.
I am afraid Stenson must have misdelivered my message, said I.
Then you do not want me at all, and I must go away?
Oh, those eyes! I am growing so tired of them. I hesitated, and
was lost.
Please let me stay and talk to Pasquale.
Mr. Pasquale, I corrected.
She echoed my words with a cooing laugh, and taking my consent for

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