The faint perfume of mouldy lore
ascended and I remembered the smell of the "Histoire des
Uscoques" in the Embankment Gardens.
"The _odor di femina_ in the nostrils of the scholar," said I.
"_Famina?_ Woman?" he cried, scandalised.
"Yes, my friend," said I. "All things sublunar can be translated
into terms of woman. St. Fliscus wrote because he hadn't a wife;
Simon Magniagus stopped printing because he got married and
devoted his existence to reproducing himself instead of St.
Fliscus."
"Ach, that is very interesting," said he. "Could you tell me the
date of Magniagus's marriage?"
"I never heard of him till this moment, my dear Herr Doctor. But
depend upon it, he was either married or was going to be married,
and she ran away from him and left him without the heart to print
for posterity, and when he took his seat among the saints she
said she was so glad; he was a stupid old ink-sodden fellow!"
He departed sorrowingly from the deck, clasping the precious
volume to his heart. Allusive or discursive speech scared him
like indecency; and I had used his gem but as a peg whereon
flauntingly to hang it.
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