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 credit to a palace; and I am fairly astounded when I reflect that it can be equally available at the bottom of the sea.”

“You can find true solitude and silence here,” replied the captain. “I do not think that your study at the Museum can offer you such perfect quiet.”

“No, indeed; and it will appear very poor after this. You must have 6,000 or 7,000 volumes on these shelves.”

“Twelve thousand,” replied Captain Nemo. “Those are the only things that bind me to the earth. The world was dead to me when my Nautilus plunged for the first time beneath the waves. Upon that day I purchased my last volumes, my last pamphlets, my last papers; and since then I wish to believe that the human race has neither thought nor written anything. These books are, however, quite at your disposal, and you may use them freely.”

I thanked my host, and approached the shelves. There were books of science, and moral and literary subjects in every language; but I did not perceive any work upon political economy. One curious feature was that the books were mingled together, not arranged according to the language in which they were written; and this seemed to prove that the captain read whatever volumes came to hand.

Amongst the books I noticed the greatest works of ancient and modern celebrities, that is to say, all the finest works that humanity has produced. There was poetry, romance, and science represented, from Homer to Victor Hugo, from Xenophon to Michelet, from Rabe-