The Ink-Stain | Page 7

not mend the case at all. "What a pity! Oh, I'm so sorry!
If I had only known--" The student of the Early Text stood motionless
as I. Together we watched the ink trickle. Suddenly, summoning his
wits together, he burrowed with feverish haste in his morocco
writing-case, pulled out a sheet of blotting-paper, and began to soak up
the ink with the carefulness of a Sister of Mercy stanching a wound. I
seized the opportunity to withdraw discreetly to the third row of tables,
where the attendant had just deposited my books. Fear is so
unreasoning. Very likely by saying no more about it, by making off and
hiding my head in my hands, like a man crushed by the weight of his
remorse, I might disarm this wrath. I tried to think so. But I knew well
enough that there was more to come. I had hardly taken my seat when,
looking up, I could see between my fingers the little man standing up
and gesticulating beside one of the keepers. At one moment he rapped
the damning page with his forefinger; the next, he turned sidewise and
flung out a hand toward me; and I divined, without hearing a word, all
the bitterness of his invective. The keeper appeared to take it seriously.
I felt myself blushing. "There must be," thought I, "some law against
ink-stains, some decree, some regulation, something drawn up for the
protection of Early Texts. And the penalty is bound to be terrible, since
it has been enacted by the learned; expulsion, no doubt, besides a
fine--an enormous fine. They are getting ready over there to fleece me.
That book of reference they are consulting is of course the catalogue of
the sale where this treasure was purchased. I shall have to replace the
Early Text! O Uncle Mouillard!"
I sat there, abandoned to my sad reflections, when one of the attendants,
whom I had not seen approaching, touched me on the shoulder.
"The keeper wishes to speak to you."
I rose up and went. The terrible reader had gone back to his seat.
"It was you, sir, I believe, who blotted the folio just now?"
"It was, sir."

"You did not do so on purpose?"
"Most certainly not, sir! I am indeed sorry for he accident."
"You ought to be. The volume is almost unique; and the blot, too, for
that matter. I never saw such a blot! Will you, please, leave me your
Christian name, surname, profession, and address?"
I wrote down, "Fabien Jean Jacques Mouillard, barrister, 91 Rue de
Rennes."
"Is that all?" I asked.
"Yes, sir, that is all for the present. But I warn you that Monsieur
Charnot is exceedingly annoyed. It might be as well to offer him some
apology."
"Monsieur Charnot?"
"Yes. It is Monsieur Charnot, of the Institute, who was reading the
Early Text."
"Merciful Heavens!" I ejaculated, as I went back to my seat; "this must
be the man of whom my tutor spoke, the other day! Monsieur Flamaran
belongs to the Academy of Moral and Political Science, the other to the
Institute of Inscriptions and the Belles-Lettres. Charnot? Yes, I have
those two syllables in my ear. The very last time I saw Monsieur
Flamaran he let fall 'my very good friend Charnot, of the 'Inscriptions.'
They are friends. And I am in a pretty situation; threatened with I don't
know what by the Library--for the keeper told me positively that this
was all 'for the present'--but not for the future; threatened to be
disgraced in my tutor's eyes; and all because this learned man's temper
is upset.
"I must apologize. Let me see, what could I say to Monsieur Charnot?
As a matter of fact, it's to the Early Text that I ought to apologize. I
have spilled no ink over Monsieur Charnot. He is spotless, collar and
cuffs; the blot, the splashes, all fell on the Text. I will say to him, 'Sir, I

am exceedingly sorry to have interrupted you so unfortunately in your
learned studies.! 'Learned studies' will tickle his vanity, and should go
far to appease him."
I was on the point of rising. M. Charnot anticipated me.
Grief is not always keenest when most recent. As he approached I saw
he was more irritated and upset than at the moment of the accident.
Above his pinched, cleanshaven chin his lips shot out with an angry
twitch. The portfolio shook under his arm. He flung me a look full of
tragedy and went on his way.
Well, well; go your way, M. Charnot! One doesn't offer apologies to a
man in his wrath. You shall have them by-and-bye, when we meet
again.

CHAPTER II
THE JUNIAN LATINS
December 28, 1884.
This afternoon I paid M. Flamaran a visit. I