e was nothing mysterious in the life of the man. What he was writing
near the window were merely translations, some of them ordered, others
volunteer work for the socialist periodicals. The only marvellous thing
about him was the quantity of languages that he knew.

"He knows them all," said the Spaniard, when describing their neighbor
to Desnoyers. "He has only to hear of a new one to master it. He
holds the key, the secret of all languages, living or dead. He
speaks Castilian as well as we do, and yet he has never been in a
Spanish-speaking country."

Argensola again felt a thrill of mystery upon reading the titles of many
of the volumes. The majority were old books, many of them in languages
that he was not able to decipher, picked up for a song at second-hand
shops or on the book stands installed upon the parapets of the Seine.
Only a man holding the key of tongues could get together such volumes.
An atmosphere of mysticism, of superhuman insight, of secrets intact
for many centuries appeared to emanate from these heaps of dusty volumes
with worm-eaten leaves. And mixed with these ancient tomes were others
red and conspicuous, pamphlets of socialistic propaganda, leaflets in
all the languages of Europe and periodicals--many periodicals, with
revolutionary titles.

Tchernoff did not appear to enjoy visits and conversation. He would
smile enigmatically into his black beard, and was very sparing with his
words so as to shorten the interview. But Argensola possessed the means
of winning over this sullen personage. It was only necessary for him
to wink one eye with the expressive invitation, "Do we go?" and the two
would soon be settled on a bench in the kitchen of Desnoyers' studio,
opposite a bottle which had come from the avenue Victor Hugo. The costly
wines of Don Marcelo made the Russian more communicative, although, in
spite of this aid, the Spaniard learned little of his neighbor's real
existence. Sometimes he would mention Jaures and other socialistic
orators. His surest means of existence was the translation of
periodicals or party papers. On various occasions the name of Siberia
escaped from his lips, and he admitted that he had been there a long
time; but he did not care to talk about a country visited against his
will. He would merely smile modestly, showing plainly that he did not
wish to make any further revelations.

The morning after the return of Julio Desnoyers, while Argensola was
talking on the st