r himself, by dint of patience, privations, and time, a precious collection of rare copies of every sort.
He never went out without a book under his arm, and he often returned with two.
The sole decoration of the four rooms on the ground floor, which composed his lodgings, consisted of framed herbariums, and engravings of the old masters. The sight of a sword or a gun chilled his blood.
He had never approached a cannon in his life, even at the Invalides.
He had a passable stomach, a brother who was a cure, perfectly white hair, no teeth, either in his mouth or his mind, a trembling in every limb, a Picard accent, an infantile laugh, the air of an old sheep, and he was easily frightened.
Add to this, that he had no other friendship, no other acquaintance among the living, than an old bookseller of the Porte-Saint-Jacques, named Royal.
His dream was to naturalize indigo in France.
His servant was also a sort of innocent.
The poor good old woman was a spinster.
Sultan, her cat, which might have mewed Allegri''s miserere in the Sixtine Chapel, had filled her heart and sufficed for the quantity of passion which existed in her.
None of her dreams had ever proceeded as far as man.
She had never been able to get further than her cat.
Like him, she had a mustache.
Her glory consisted in her caps, which were always white.