The Amethyst Ring. Anatole France

torches surmounted by a ducal crown. M. Lerond was not a keen book-lover, but on opening a beautifully written manuscript on Royal Tithes, presented to the Marshal by Vauban, his astonishment and admiration knew no bounds.

      The manuscript was further embellished with a frontispiece, besides several vignettes and tail-pieces.

      “Are these original drawings?” asked M. Lerond.

      “Very probably,” replied M. de Brécé.

      “They are signed,” went on M. Lerond, “and I think I can decipher the name of Sebastian Leclerc.”

      “Maybe,” answered M. de Brécé.

      These priceless shelves contained, as M. Lerond remarked, books by Tillemont on Roman and Church history, the statute book of the province, and innumerable Fœdera by old doctors at law; he unearthed works on theology, on controversy, and on hagiology, long genealogical histories, old editions of Greek and Latin classics, and some of those enormous books, bigger than atlases, written on the occasion of the marriage of a king or his entry into Paris, or to celebrate his convalescence or his victories.

      “This is the oldest part of the library,” said M. de Brécé, “the Marshal’s collection. Here,” he added, opening two or three other cases, “are the additions of Duc Jean.”

      “Louis XVI’s minister, surnamed the ‘Good Duke’?” asked M. Lerond.

      “Just so,” replied M. de Brécé.

      Duc Jean’s collection took up all that side of the wall containing the mantelpiece and also the side looking out upon the little town. M. Lerond read out the titles stamped in gold between two bands, that decorated the backs of the volumes: Encyclopédie méthodique; Œuvres de Montesquieu; Œvres de Voltaire; Œuvres de Rousseau, de l’abbé Mably, de Condillac; and Histoire des Établissements Européens dans les Indes, by Raynal. He then glanced through the lesser poets and romancers with the vignettes of Grécourt, Dorat, and Saint-Lambert; the Boccaccio illustrated by Marillier, and the edition of La Fontaine, published by the “Fermiers Généraux.”

      “The pictures are rather free,” remarked the Duke. “I have been compelled to destroy certain works of the same period, the illustrations of which were really licentious.”

      M. Lerond, however, discovered, side by side with these frivolous books, a lengthy series of political and philosophical works, essays on slavery, printed accounts of the American War of Independence. He opened Vœux d’un solitaire, and saw that the margins were covered with notes in Duc Jean’s handwriting. He read aloud:

      “The author is right; man is naturally good, and the mistaken social laws alone are responsible for his evil deeds.”

      “That,” he added, “is what your great-great-grandfather wrote in 1790.”

      “How very curious!” remarked the Duke, replacing the book upon its shelf. Then, opening the cases upon the north side of the room, he said:

      “These are the books collected by my grandfather, who was page to Charles X.”

      Here M. Lerond discovered, bound in sombre sheepskin, tan calf and black shagreen, the works of Chateaubriand, a series of “Mémoires” on the Revolution, the Histories of Anquetil, Guizot, and Augustin Thierry; La Harpe’s Cours de littérature, Marchangy’s Gaule poétique, and the Discours of Lainé.

      Close to this literature dealing with the Restoration, and the Government of July, was a shelf on which lay two or three tattered papers on Pope Pius IX and temporal power, a few dilapidated novels, a pamphlet in praise of Joan of Arc, which had been read by Monseigneur Charlot in the church of Saint-Exupère on the 8th of June, 1890, and a few religious books written for ladies of high degree. This was the contribution of the late Duke, member of the National Assembly in 1871, and of the present Duc de Brécé, to the library created by the marshal in 1605.

      “I must lock up these books,” said M. de Brécé. “I cannot be too careful, for my sons are growing up, and at any moment may be seized with the desire to come and examine the library for themselves. There are books among these which should never fall into the hands of any young man, nor of any self-respecting woman, no matter what her age may be.”

      And so, in his honest zeal for doing good, and in the happy conviction that he was imprisoning lust, doubt, impiety, and evil thoughts, he turned his key upon them; and this sentiment, which, when analysed, had its share of simple complacency and the secret jealousy of an ignorant man, was not without its beauty and purity also.

      Having thrust the bunch of keys into his pocket again, the Duke turned a satisfied countenance to M. Lerond.

       “Overhead,” he said, “is the King’s room. The old inventories give this name to all the upper story. The room properly so-called, however, contains the bed in which Louis XIII slept, and it is still hung with the same silk embroidery. It is well worth a visit.”

      M. Lerond was so tired that he could hardly stand. His legs, accustomed all the year round to be tucked away under a desk, had had hard work to carry him through the walk on the slippery paths of the park, the tramp round the stables, and the stroll along the woods to the church; they felt limp and weak, and his feet were hot and painful, for the poor man, anxious to do the right thing, had, unfortunately, put on patent-leather boots. Casting an uneasy glance at the ceiling, he stammered:

      “It grows late. Would it not be better to join the ladies in the drawing-room?”

      M. de Brécé was only adamant with regard to the visit to the stables; as far as the remainder of his property was concerned he was reasonable enough.

      “Yes, the light is going,” he said. “We will see the rest another time. To the right, M. Lerond; to the right, please.”

      “What walls!” cried the ex-deputy, as he reached the doorway. “What tremendously thick walls!”

       His thin face, the calm and cold expression of which had not altered one whit at the sight of the hunting trophies in the hall, the historic paintings in the drawing-room, the rich tapestries, the magnificent ceiling of the gallery, and the beautiful books with their tooled morocco bindings, now grew animated, interested, and full of admiration. He had at last discovered something to stir and amaze him, something which afforded him both food for thought and mental satisfaction—a wall! His legal mind, struck down in its flower at the time of the new regulations, and his heart, too soon bereaved of the joy of administering punishment, rejoiced at the sight of a wall, a deaf, dumb, sombre thing, which recalled to his eager mind thoughts of prison cells, of sentences and public prosecutions, of codes, laws, justice, and morals—a wall!

      “Yes,” replied the Duke, “the wall at this particular spot between the gallery and the next wing is tremendously thick. It is the outer wall of the old castle, built in 1405.”

      M. Lerond gazed lingeringly at the wall, measured it with his eyes, felt it with his little, crooked, yellow hands, studied, worshipped, loved, and possessed it.

      “Mesdames,” he said to the ladies on his return to the drawing-room, “the Duke has very kindly shown me his wonderful library. On my way back I noticed the remarkable wall that separates the gallery from the wing. I don’t think there is anything to equal it even at Chambord.”

      But neither the Brécé ladies nor Madame de Courtrai was listening; their united attention was given to another matter.

      “Jean,” cried the Duchess to her husband, “Jean, look at this!” And she pointed to a red leather case lying on the table near the lamp which a servant had just brought in. The case was round in shape, topped with a kind of knob like a thimble, and divided at the base in the shape of a clover leaf. A visiting card lay beside it. All around the table were heaps of tissue paper, that made one think of little white dogs tied up with pale blue ribbon.

      “Do look, Jean!”

      The Abbé Guitrel, who was standing near the table, opened the case with reverent hands, and displayed a golden ciborium.

      “Who