enjoy--long may he live to enjoy them all!--do you think so? Of course
not! You know perfectly well that his--wife--wouldn't--let--him!

I would not wound the susceptibilities of any reader; but speaking for
myself--"Chicot" being beloved of my heart--if there was a mean man,
living in a mean street, who had the last volume of "Chicot" in
existence, I would pour out my library's last heart's blood to get
it. He could have all of Scott but "Ivanhoe," all of Dickens but
"Copperfield," all of Hugo but "Les Miserables," cords of Fielding,
Marryat, Richardson, Reynolds, Eliot, Smollet, a whole ton of German
translations--by George! he could leave me a poor old despoiled,
destitute and ruined book-owner in things that folks buy in costly
bindings for the sake of vanity and the deception of those who also
deceive them in turn.

Brother, "Chicot" is a book you lend only to your dearest friend, and
then remind him next day that he hasn't sent it back.

* * * * *

Now, as to Bussy's great fight. He had gone to the house of Madame Diana
de Monsereau. I am not au fait upon French social customs, but let us
presume his being there was entirely proper, because that excellent lady
was glad to see him. He was set upon by her husband, M. de Monsereau,
with fifteen hired assassins. Outside, the Due D'Anjou and some others
of assassins were in hiding to make sure that Monsereau killed Bussy,
and that somebody killed Monsereau! There's a "situation" for you,
double-edged treachery against--love and innocence, let us say. Bussy
is in the house with Madame. His friend, St. Luc, is with him; also
his lacquey and body-physician, the faithful Rely. Bang! the doors are