For a long time the stranger discouraged all approach to his quarters, which fact led the Spaniard to infer that he devoted himself to alchemy and kindred mysteries.

When he finally was allowed to enter he saw only books, many books, books everywhere--scattered on the floor, heaped upon benches, piled in corners, overflowing on to broken-down chairs, old tables, and a bed that was only made up now and then when the owner, alarmed by the increasing invasion of dust and cobwebs, was obliged to call in the aid of his friend, the concierge.
Argensola finally realized, not without a certain disenchantment, that there 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.