“The embankment of the Seine, where humpbacked book chests stretch, above which plane trees rustle lightly, is somewhat reminiscent of a cemetery... There, an indifferent second-hand bookseller, in the corner of a chest, upholstered with iron, knocks out dusty wars and bucolics, dusty heroes, dusty inspiration and dusty nonsense, bundles of old books tied with twine. One of these books now lies in front of me on the table. I will try to describe this mysterious creature...”