"Three thousand one hundred!" responded Signor Polizzi.
Then began a heroic duel between the expert and myself.
"Three thousand five hundred!"
"Six hundred!"
"Seven hundred!"
"Four thousand!"
"Four thousand five hundred."
Then by a sudden bold stroke, Signor Polizzi raised the bid at once to six thousand.
Six thousand francs was all the money I could dispose of.It represented the possible.I risked the impossible.
"Six thousand one hundred!"
Alas! even the impossible did not suffice.
"Six thousand five hundred!" replied Signor Polizzi, with calm.
I bowed my head and sat there stupefied, unable to answer either yes or no to the crier, who called to me:
"Six thousand five hundred, by me--not by you on the right there!--it is my bid--no mistake! Six thousand five hundred!""Perfectly understood!" declared the auctioneer."Six thousand five hundred.Perfectly clear; perfectly plain....Any more bids? The last bid is six thousand five hundred francs."A solemn silence prevailed.Suddenly I felt as if my head had burst open.It was the hammer of the officiant, who, with a loud blow on the platform, adjudged No.42 irrevocably to Signor Polizzi.
Forthwith the pen of the clerk, coursing over the papier-timbre, registered that great fact in a single line.
I was absolutely prostrated, and I felt the utmost need of rest and quiet.Nevertheless, I did not leave my seat.My powers of reflection slowly returned.Hope is tenacious.I had one more hope.
It occurred to me that the new owner of the "Legende Doree" might be some intelligent and liberal bibliophile who would allow me to examine the MS., and perhaps even to publish the more important parts.And, with this idea, as soon as the sale was over I approached the expert as he was leaving the platform.
"Monsieur," I asked him, "did you buy in No.42 on your own account, or on commission?""On commission.I was instructed not to let it go at any price.""Can you tell me the name of the purchaser?""Monsieur, I regret that I cannot serve you in that respect.I have been strictly forbidden to mention the name."I went home in despair.
December 30, 1859.
"Therese! don't you hear the bell? Somebody has been ringing at the door for the last quarter of an hour?"Therese does not answer.She is chattering downstairs with the concierge, for sure.So that is the way you observe your old master's birthday? You desert me even on the eve of Saint-Sylvestre! Alas!
if I am to hear any kind wishes to-day, they must come up from the ground; for all who love me have long been buried.I really don't know what I am still living for.There is the bell again!...I get up slowly from my seat at the fire, with my shoulders still bent from stooping over it, and go to the door myself.Whom do I see at the threshold? It is not a dripping love, and I am not an old Anacreon; but it is a very pretty little boy of about ten years old.
He is alone; he raises his face to look at me.His cheeks are blushing; but his little pert nose gives one an idea of mischievous pleasantry.He has feathers in his cap, and a great lace-ruff on his jacket.The pretty little fellow! He holds in both arms a bundle as big as himself, and asks me if I am Monsieur Sylvestre Bonnard.I tell him yes; he gives me the bundle, tells me his mamma sent it to me, and then he runs downstairs.
I go down a few steps; I lean over the balustrade, and see the little cap whirling down the spiral of the stairway like a feather in the wind."Good-bye, my little boy!" I should have liked so much to question him.But what, after all, could I have asked? It is not polite to question children.Besides, the package itself will probably give me more information than the messenger could.
