The Revolt of the Angels - 02

Total number of words is 4738
Total number of unique words is 1700
42.9 of words are in the 2000 most common words
61.7 of words are in the 5000 most common words
70.2 of words are in the 8000 most common words
Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
borne in upon the mind of Monsieur Sariette: to wit, that the most
scientific system of numbering will not help to find a book if the book
is no longer in its place. Every day of the ensuing month found the
table littered with books. Greek and Latin lay cheek by jowl with
Hebrew. Monsieur Sariette asked himself whether these nocturnal
flittings were the work of evil-doers who entered by the skylights to
steal valuable and precious volumes. But he found no traces of burglary,
and, notwithstanding the most minute search, failed to discover that
anything had disappeared. Terrible anxiety took possession of his mind,
and he fell to wondering whether it was possible that some monkey in the
neighbourhood came down the chimney and acted the part of a person
engaged in study. Deriving his knowledge of the habits of these animals
in the main from the paintings of Watteau and Chardin, he took it that,
in the art of imitating gestures or assuming characters they resembled
Harlequin, Scaramouch, Zerlin, and the Doctors of the Italian comedy; he
imagined them handling a palette and brushes, pounding drugs in a
mortar, or turning over the leaves of an old treatise on alchemy beside
an athanor. And so it was that, when, on one unhappy morning, he saw a
huge blot of ink on one of the leaves of the third volume of the
polyglot Bible bound in blue morocco and adorned with the arms of the
Comte de Mirabeau, he had no doubt that a monkey was the author of the
evil deed. The monkey had been pretending to take notes and had upset
the inkpot. It must be a monkey belonging to a learned professor.
Imbued with this idea, Monsieur Sariette carefully studied the
topography of the district, so as to draw a cordon round the group of
houses amid which the d'Esparvieu house stood. Then he visited the four
surrounding streets, asking at every door if there was a monkey in the
house. He interrogated porters and their wives, washer-women, servants,
a cobbler, a greengrocer, a glazier, clerks in bookshops, a priest, a
bookbinder, two guardians of the peace, children, thus testing the
diversity of character and variety of temper in one and the same people;
for the replies he received were quite dissimilar in nature; some were
rough, some were gentle; there were the coarse and the polished, the
simple and the ironical, the prolix and the abrupt, the brief and even
the silent. But of the animal he sought he had had neither sight nor
sound, when under the archway of an old house in the Rue Servandoni, a
small freckled, red-haired girl who looked after the door, made reply:
"There is Monsieur Ordonneau's monkey; would you care to see it?"
And without another word she conducted the old man to a stable at the
other end of the yard. There on some rank straw and old bits of cloth, a
young macaco with a chain round his middle sat and shivered. He was no
taller than a five-year-old child. His livid face, his wrinkled brow,
his thin lips were all expressive of mortal sadness. He fixed on the
visitor the still lively gaze of his yellow eyes. Then with his small
dry hand he seized a carrot, put it to his mouth, and forthwith flung it
away. Having looked at the newcomers for a moment, the exile turned away
his head, as if he expected nothing further of mankind or of life.
Sitting huddled up, one knee in his hand, he made no further movement,
but at times a dry cough shook his breast.
"It's Edgar," said the small girl. "He is for sale, you know."
But the old book-lover, who had come armed with anger and resentment,
thinking to find a cynical enemy, a monster of malice, an
antibibliophile, stopped short, surprised, saddened, and overcome,
before this little being devoid of strength and joy and hope.
Recognising his mistake, troubled by the almost human face which sorrow
and suffering made more human still, he murmured "Forgive me" and bowed
his head.


CHAPTER IV
WHICH IN ITS FORCEFUL BREVITY PROJECTS US TO THE LIMITS OF
THE ACTUAL WORLD

Two months elapsed; the domestic upheaval did not subside, and Monsieur
Sariette's thoughts turned to the Freemasons. The papers he read were
full of their crimes. Abbé Patouille deemed them capable of the darkest
deeds, and believed them to be in league with the Jews and meditating
the total overthrow of Christendom.
Having now arrived at the acme of power, they wielded a dominating
influence in all the principal departments of State, they ruled the
Chambers, there were five of them in the Ministry, and they filled the
Élysée. Having some time since assassinated a President of the Republic
because he was a patriot, they were getting rid of the accomplices and
witnesses of their execrable crime. Few days passed without Paris being
terror-stricken at some mysterious murder hatched in their Lodges. These
were facts concerning which no doubt was possible. By what means did
they gain access to the library? Monsieur Sariette could not imagine.
What task had they come to fulfil? Why did they attack sacred antiquity
and the origins of the Church? What impious designs were they forming? A
heavy shadow hung over these terrible undertakings. The Catholic
archivist feeling himself under the eye of the sons of Hiram was
terrified and fell ill.
Scarcely had he recovered, when he resolved to pass the night in the
very spot where these terrible mysteries were enacted, and to take the
subtle and dangerous visitors by surprise. It was an enterprise that
demanded all his slender courage. Being a man of delicate physique and
of nervous temperament, Monsieur Sariette was naturally inclined to be
fearful. On the 8th of January at nine o'clock in the evening, while the
city lay asleep under a whirling snowstorm, he built up a good fire in
the room containing the busts of the ancient poets and philosophers, and
ensconced himself in an arm-chair at the chimney corner, a rug over his
knees. On a small stand within reach of his hand were a lamp, a bowl of
black coffee, and a revolver borrowed from the youthful Maurice. He
tried to read his paper, _La Croix_, but the letters danced beneath his
eyes. So he stared hard in front of him, saw nothing but the shadows,
heard nothing but the wind, and fell asleep.
When he awoke the fire was out, the lamp was extinguished, leaving an
acrid smell behind. But all around, the darkness was filled with milky
brightness and phosphorescent lights. He thought he saw something
flutter on the table. Stricken to the marrow with cold and terror, but
upheld by a resolve stronger than any fear, he rose, approached the
table, and passed his hands over the cloth. He saw nothing; even the
lights faded, but under his fingers he felt a folio wide open; he tried
to close it, the book resisted, jumped up and hit the imprudent
librarian three blows on the head.
Monsieur Sariette fell down unconscious....
Since then things had gone from bad to worse. Books left their allotted
shelves in greater profusion than ever, and sometimes it was impossible
to replace them; they disappeared. Monsieur Sariette discovered fresh
losses daily. The Bollandists were now an imperfect set, thirty volumes
of exegesis were missing. He himself had become unrecognisable. His face
had shrunk to the size of one's fist and grown yellow as a lemon, his
neck was elongated out of all proportion, his shoulders drooped, the
clothes he wore hung on him as on a peg. He ate nothing, and at the
_Crèmerie des Quatre Évêques_ he would sit with dull eyes and bowed
head, staring fixedly and vacantly at the saucer where, in a muddy
juice, floated his stewed prunes. He did not hear old Guinardon relate
how he had at last begun to restore the Delacroix paintings at St.
Sulpice.
Monsieur René d'Esparvieu, when he heard the unhappy curator's alarming
reports, used to answer drily:
"These books have been mislaid, they are not lost; look carefully,
Monsieur Sariette, look carefully and you will find them."
And he murmured behind the old man's back:
"Poor old Sariette is in a bad way."
"I think," replied Abbé Patouille, "that his brain is going."


CHAPTER V
WHEREIN EVERYTHING SEEMS STRANGE BECAUSE EVERYTHING IS
LOGICAL

The Chapel of the Holy Angels, which lies on the right hand as you enter
the Church of St. Sulpice, was hidden behind a scaffolding of planks.
Abbé Patouille, Monsieur Gaétan, Monsieur Maurice, his nephew, and
Monsieur Sariette, entered in single file through the low door cut in
the wooden hoarding, and found old Guinardon on the top of his ladder
standing in front of the Heliodorus. The old artist, surrounded by all
sorts of tools and materials, was putting a white paste in the crack
which cut in two the High Priest Onias. Zéphyrine, Paul Baudry's
favourite model, Zéphyrine, who had lent her golden hair and polished
shoulders to so many Magdalens, Marguerites, sylphs, and mermaids, and
who, it is said, was beloved of the Emperor Napoleon III, was standing
at the foot of the ladder with tangled locks, cadaverous cheeks, and dim
eyes, older than old Guinardon, whose life she had shared for more than
half a century. She had brought the painter's lunch in a basket.
Although the slanting rays fell grey and cold through the leaded and
iron-barred window, Delacroix's colouring shone resplendent, and the
roses on the cheeks of men and angels dimmed with their glorious beauty
the rubicund countenance of old Guinardon, which stood out in relief
against one of the temple's columns. These frescoes of the Chapel of the
Holy Angels, though derided and insulted when they first appeared, have
now become part of the classic tradition, and are united in immortality
with the masterpieces of Rubens and Tintoretto.
Old Guinardon, bearded and long-haired, looked like Father Time effacing
the works of man's genius. Gaétan, in alarm, called out to him:
"Carefully, Monsieur Guinardon, carefully. Do not scrape too much."
The painter reassured him.
"Fear nothing, Monsieur Gaétan. I do not paint in that style. My art is
a higher one. I work after the manner of Cimabue, Giotto, and Beato
Angelico, not in the style of Delacroix. This surface here is too
heavily charged with contrast and opposition to give a really sacred
effect. It is true that Chenavard said that Christianity loves the
picturesque, but Chenavard was a rascal with neither faith nor
principle--an infidel.... Look, Monsieur d'Esparvieu, I fill up the
crevice, I relay the scales of paint which are peeling. That is all....
The damage, due to the sinking of the wall, or more probably to a
seismic shock, is confined to a very small space. This painting of oil
and wax applied on a very dry foundation is far more solid than one
might think.
"I saw Delacroix engaged on this work. Impassioned but anxious, he
modelled feverishly, scraped out, re-painted unceasingly; his mighty
hand made childish blunders, but the thing is done with the mastery of a
genius and the inexperience of a schoolboy. It is a marvel how it
holds."
The good man was silent, and went on filling in the crevice.
"How classic and traditional the composition is," said Gaétan. "Time was
when one could recognise nothing but its amazing novelty; now one can
see in it a multitude of old Italian formulas."
"I may allow myself the luxury of being just, I possess the
qualifications," said the old man from the top of his lofty ladder.
"Delacroix lived in a blasphemous and godless age. A painter of the
decadence, he was not without pride nor grandeur. He was greater than
his times. But he lacked faith, single-heartedness, and purity. To be
able to see and paint angels he needed that virtue of angels and
primitives, that supreme virtue which, with God's help, I do my best to
practise, chastity."
"Hold your tongue, Michel; you are as big a brute as any of them."
Thus Zéphyrine, devoured with jealousy because that very morning on the
stairs she had seen her lover kiss the bread-woman's daughter, to wit
the youthful Octavie, who was as squalid and radiant as one of
Rembrandt's Brides. She had loved Michel madly in the happy days long
since past, and love had never died out in Zéphyrine's heart.
Old Guinardon received the flattering insult with a smile that he
dissembled, and raised his eyes to the ceiling, where the archangel
Michael, terrible in azure cuirass and gilt helmet, was springing
heavenwards in all the radiance of his glory.
Meanwhile Abbé Patouille, blinking, and shielding his eyes with his hat
against the glaring light from the window, began to examine the pictures
one after another: Heliodorus being scourged by the angels, St. Michael
vanquishing the Demons, and the combat of Jacob and the Angel.
"All this is exceedingly fine," he murmured at last, "but why has the
artist only represented wrathful angels on these walls? Look where I
will in this chapel, I see but heralds of celestial anger, ministers of
divine vengeance. God wishes to be feared; He wishes also to be loved. I
would fain perceive on these walls messengers of peace and of clemency.
I should like to see the Seraphim who purified the lips of the prophet,
St. Raphael who gave back his sight to old Tobias, Gabriel who announced
the Mystery of the Incarnation to Mary, the Angel who delivered St.
Peter from his chains, the Cherubim who bore the dead St. Catherine to
the top of Sinai. Above all, I should like to be able to contemplate
those heavenly guardians which God gives to every man baptized in His
name. We each have one who follows all our steps, who comforts us and
upholds us. It would be pleasant indeed to admire these enchanting
spirits, these beautiful faces."
"Ah, Abbé! it depends on the point of view," answered Gaétan. "Delacroix
was no sentimentalist. Old Ingres was not very far wrong in saying that
this great man's work reeks of fire and brimstone. Look at the sombre,
splendid beauty of those angels, look at those androgynes so proud and
fierce, at those pitiless youths who lift avenging rods against
Heliodorus, note this mysterious wrestler touching the patriarch on the
hip...."
"Hush," said Abbé Patouille. "According to the Bible he is no angel like
the others; if he be an angel, he is the Angel of Creation, the Eternal
Son of God. I am surprised that the Venerable Curé of St. Sulpice, who
entrusted the decoration of this chapel to Monsieur Eugène Delacroix,
did not tell him that the patriarch's symbolic struggle with Him who was
nameless took place in profound darkness, and that the subject is quite
out of place here, since it prefigures the Incarnation of Jesus Christ.
The best artists go astray when they fail to obtain their ideas of
Christian iconography from a qualified ecclesiastic. The institutions of
Christian art form the subject of numerous works with which you are
doubtless acquainted, Monsieur Sariette."
Monsieur Sariette was gazing vacantly about him. It was the third
morning after his adventurous night in the library. Being, however, thus
called upon by the venerable ecclesiastic, he pulled himself together
and replied:
"On this subject we may with advantage consult Molanus, _De Historia
Sacrarum Imaginum et Picturarum_, in the edition given us by Noël
Paquot, dated Louvain, 1771; Cardinal Frederico Borromeo, _De Pictura
Sacra_, and the Iconography of Didron; but this last work must be read
with caution."
Having thus spoken, Monsieur Sariette relapsed into silence. He was
pondering on his devastated library.
"On the other hand," continued Abbé Patouille, "since an example of the
holy anger of the angels was necessary in this chapel, the painter is to
be commended for having depicted for us in imitation of Raphael the
heavenly messengers who chastised Heliodorus. Ordered by Seleucus, King
of Syria, to carry off the treasures contained in the Temple, Heliodorus
was stricken by an angel in a cuirass of gold mounted on a magnificently
caparisoned steed. Two other angels smote him with rods. He fell to
earth, as Monsieur Delacroix shows us here, and was swallowed up in
darkness. It is right and salutary that this adventure should be cited
as an example to the Republican Commissioners of Police and to the
sacrilegious agents of the law. There will always be Heliodoruses, but,
let it be known, every time they lay their hands on the property of the
Church, which is the property of the poor, they shall be chastised with
rods and blinded by the angels."
"I should like this painting, or, better still, Raphael's sublimer
conception of the same subject, to be engraved in little pictures fully
coloured, and distributed as rewards in all the schools."
"Uncle," said young Maurice, with a yawn, "I think these things are
simply ghastly. I prefer Matisse and Metzinger."
These words fell unheeded, and old Guinardon from his ladder held forth:
"Only the primitives caught a glimpse of Heaven. Beauty is only to be
found between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries. The antique, the
impure antique, which regained its pernicious influence over the minds
of the sixteenth century, inspired poets and painters with criminal
notions and immodest conceptions, with horrid impurities, filth. All the
artists of the Renaissance were swine, including Michael-Angelo."
Then, perceiving that Gaétan was on the point of departure, Père
Guinardon assumed an air of bonhomie, and said to him in a confidential
tone:
"Monsieur Gaétan, if you're not afraid of climbing up my five flights,
come and have a look at my den. I've got two or three little canvases I
wouldn't mind parting with, and they might interest you. All good,
honest, straightforward stuff. I'll show you, among other things, a
tasty, spicy little Baudouin that would make your mouth water."
At this speech Gaétan made off. As he descended the church steps and
turned down the Rue Princesse, he found himself accompanied by old
Sariette, and fell to unburdening himself to him, as he would have done
to any human creature, or indeed to a tree, a lamp-post, a dog, or his
own shadow, of the indignation with which the æsthetic theories of the
old painter inspired him.
"Old Guinardon overdoes it with his Christian art and his Primitives!
Whatever the artist conceives of Heaven is borrowed from earth; God, the
Virgin, the Angels, men and women, saints, the light, the clouds. When
he was designing figures for the chapel windows at Dreux, old Ingres
drew from life a pure, fine study of a woman, which may be seen, among
many others, in the Musée Bonnat at Bayonne. Old Ingres had written at
the bottom of the page in case he should forget: 'Mademoiselle Cécile,
admirable legs and thighs'--and so as to make Mademoiselle Cécile into a
saint in Paradise, he gave her a robe, a cloak, a veil, inflicting thus
a shameful decline in her estate, for the tissues of Lyons and Genoa are
worthless compared with the youthful living tissue, rosy with pure
blood; the most beautiful draperies are despicable compared with the
lines of a beautiful body. In fact, clothing for flesh that is desirable
and ripe for wedlock is an unmerited shame, and the worst of
humiliations"; and Gaétan, walking carelessly in the gutter of the Rue
Garancière, continued: "Old Guinardon is a pestilential idiot. He
blasphemes Antiquity, sacred Antiquity, the age when the gods were kind.
He exalts an epoch when the painter and the sculptor had all their
lessons to learn over again. In point of fact, Christianity has run
contrary to art in so much as it has not favoured the study of the nude.
Art is the representation of nature, and nature is pre-eminently the
human body; it is the nude."
"Pardon, pardon," purred old Sariette. "There is such a thing as
spiritual, or, as one might term it, inward beauty, which, since the
days of Fra Angelico down to those of Hippolyte Flandrin, Christian art
has--"
But Gaétan, never hearing a word of all this, went on hurling his
impetuous observations at the stones of the old street and the
snow-laden clouds overhead:
"The Primitives cannot be judged as a whole, for they are utterly unlike
each other. This old madman confounds them all together. Cimabue is a
corrupt Byzantine, Giotto gives hints of powerful genius, but his
modelling is bad, and, like children, he gives all his characters the
same face. The early Italians have grace and joy, because they are
Italians. The Venetians have an instinct for fine colour. But when all
is said and done these exquisite craftsmen enamel and gild rather than
paint. There is far too much softness about the heart and the colouring
of your saintly Angelico for me. As for the Flemish school, that's quite
another pair of shoes. They can use their hands, and in glory of
workmanship they are on a level with the Chinese lacquer-workers. The
technique of the brothers Van Eyck is a marvel, but I cannot discover in
their Adoration of the Lamb the charm and mystery that some have
vaunted. Everything in it is treated with a pitiless perfection; it is
vulgar in feeling and cruelly ugly. Memling may touch one perhaps; but
he creates nothing but sick wretches and cripples; under the heavy,
rich, and ungraceful robing of his virgins and saints one divines some
very lamentable anatomy. I did not wait for Rogier van der Wyden to call
himself Roger de la Pasture and turn Frenchman in order to prefer him to
Memling. This Rogier or Roger is less of a ninny; but then he is more
lugubrious, and the rigidity of his lines bears eloquent testimony to
his poverty-stricken figures. It is a strange perversion to take
pleasure in these carnivalesque figures when one can have the paintings
of Leonardo, Titian, Correggio, Velasquez, Rubens, Rembrandt, Poussin,
or Prud'hon. Really it is a perverted instinct."
Meanwhile the Abbé Patouille and Maurice d'Esparvieu were strolling
leisurely along in the wake of the esthete and the librarian. As a
general rule the Abbé Patouille was little inclined to talk theology
with laymen, or, for that matter, with clerics either. Carried away,
however, by the attractiveness of the subject, he was telling the
youthful Maurice all about the sacred mission of those guardian angels
which Monsieur Delacroix had so inopportunely excluded from his picture.
And in order to give more adequate expression to his thoughts on such
lofty themes, the Abbé Patouille borrowed whole phrases and sentences
from Bossuet. He had got them up by heart to put in his sermons, for he
adhered strongly to tradition.
"Yes, my son," he was saying, "God has appointed tutelary spirits to be
near us. They come to us laden with His gifts. They return laden with
our prayers. Such is their task. Not an hour, not a moment passes but
they are at our side, ready to help us, ever fervent and unwearying
guardians, watchmen that never slumber."
"Quite so, Abbé," murmured Maurice, who was wondering by what cunning
artifice he could get on the soft side of his mother and persuade her to
give him some money of which he was urgently in need.


CHAPTER VI
WHEREIN PÈRE SARIETTE DISCOVERS HIS MISSING TREASURES

Next morning Monsieur Sariette entered Monsieur René d'Esparvieu's study
without knocking. He raised his arms to the heavens, his few hairs were
standing straight up on his head. His eyes were big with terror. In
husky tones he stammered out the dreadful news. A very old manuscript of
Flavius Josephus; sixty volumes of all sizes; a priceless jewel, namely,
a _Lucretius_ adorned with the arms of Philippe de Vendôme, Grand Prior
of France, with notes in Voltaire's own hand; a manuscript of Richard
Simon, and a set of Gassendi's correspondence with Gabriel Naudé,
comprising two hundred and thirty-eight unpublished letters, had
disappeared. This time the owner of the library was alarmed.
He mounted in haste to the abode of the philosophers and the globes, and
there with his own eyes confirmed the magnitude of the disaster.
There were yawning gaps on many a shelf. He searched here and there,
opened cupboards, dragged out brooms, dusters, and fire-extinguishers,
rattled the shovel in the coke fire, shook out Monsieur Sariette's best
frock-coat that was hanging in the cloak-room, and then stood and gazed
disconsolately at the empty places left by the Gassendi portfolios.
For the past half-century the whole learned world had been loudly
clamouring for the publication of this correspondence. Monsieur René
d'Esparvieu had not responded to the universal desire, unwilling either
to assume so heavy a task, or to resign it to others. Having found much
boldness of thought in these letters, and many passages of more
libertine tendency than the piety of the twentieth century could endure,
he preferred that they should remain unpublished; but he felt himself
responsible for their safe-keeping, not only to his country but to the
whole civilized world.
"How can you have allowed yourself to be robbed of such a treasure?" he
asked severely of Monsieur Sariette.
"How can I have allowed myself to be robbed of such a treasure?"
repeated the unhappy librarian. "Monsieur, if you opened my breast, you
would find that question engraved upon my heart."
Unmoved by this powerful utterance, Monsieur d'Esparvieu continued with
pent-up fury:
"And you have discovered no single sign that would put you on the track
of the thief, Monsieur Sariette? You have no suspicion, not the
faintest idea, of the way these things have come to pass? You have seen
nothing, heard nothing, noticed nothing, learnt nothing? You must grant
this is unbelievable. Think, Monsieur Sariette, think of the possible
consequences of this unheard-of theft, committed under your eyes. A
document of inestimable value in the history of the human mind
disappears. Who has stolen it? Why has it been stolen? Who will gain by
it? Those who have got possession of it doubtless know that they will be
unable to dispose of it in France. They will go and sell it in America
or Germany. Germany is greedy for such literary monuments. Should the
correspondence of Gassendi with Gabriel Naudé go over to Berlin, if it
is published there by German savants, what a disaster, nay, what a
scandal! Monsieur Sariette, have you not thought of that?..."
Beneath the stroke of an accusation all the more cruel in that he
brought it against himself, Monsieur Sariette stood stupefied, and was
silent. And Monsieur d'Esparvieu continued to overwhelm him with bitter
reproaches.
"And you make no effort. You devise nothing to find these inestimable
treasures. Make enquiries, bestir yourself, Monsieur Sariette; use your
wits. It is well worth while."
And Monsieur d'Esparvieu went out, throwing an icy glance at his
librarian.
Monsieur Sariette sought the lost books and manuscripts in every spot
where he had already sought them a hundred times, and where they could
not possibly be. He even looked in the coke-box and under the leather
seat of his arm-chair. When midday struck he mechanically went
downstairs. At the foot of the stairs he met his old pupil Maurice, with
whom he exchanged a bow. But he only saw men and things as through a
mist.
The broken-hearted curator had already reached the hall when Maurice
called him back.
"Monsieur Sariette, while I think of it, do have the books removed that
are choking up my garden-house."
"What books, Maurice?"
"I could not tell you, Monsieur Sariette, but there are some in Hebrew,
all worm-eaten, with a whole heap of old papers. They are in my way. You
can't turn round in the passage."
"Who took them there?"
"I'm bothered if I know."
And the young man rushed off to the dining-room, the luncheon gong
having sounded quite a minute ago.
Monsieur Sariette tore away to the summer-house. Maurice had spoken the
truth. About a hundred volumes were there, on tables, on chairs, even on
the floor. When he saw them he was divided betwixt joy and fear, filled
with amazement and anxiety. Happy in the finding of his lost treasure,
dreading to lose it again, and completely overwhelmed with astonishment,
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  • The Revolt of the Angels - 01
    Total number of words is 4651
    Total number of unique words is 1640
    41.2 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    58.8 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    68.6 of words are in the 8000 most common words
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  • The Revolt of the Angels - 02
    Total number of words is 4738
    Total number of unique words is 1700
    42.9 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    61.7 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    70.2 of words are in the 8000 most common words
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  • The Revolt of the Angels - 03
    Total number of words is 4682
    Total number of unique words is 1599
    45.8 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    66.3 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    75.8 of words are in the 8000 most common words
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  • The Revolt of the Angels - 04
    Total number of words is 4843
    Total number of unique words is 1503
    48.4 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    67.6 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    75.8 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 05
    Total number of words is 4814
    Total number of unique words is 1659
    45.7 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    65.7 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    75.6 of words are in the 8000 most common words
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  • The Revolt of the Angels - 06
    Total number of words is 4826
    Total number of unique words is 1656
    46.9 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    65.3 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    73.5 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 07
    Total number of words is 4783
    Total number of unique words is 1661
    45.8 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    63.3 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    72.7 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 08
    Total number of words is 4938
    Total number of unique words is 1779
    39.0 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    59.6 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    70.3 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 09
    Total number of words is 4833
    Total number of unique words is 1758
    39.4 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    59.0 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    70.0 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 10
    Total number of words is 4813
    Total number of unique words is 1718
    43.5 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    61.9 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    71.7 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 11
    Total number of words is 4843
    Total number of unique words is 1654
    45.2 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    65.1 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    73.7 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 12
    Total number of words is 4735
    Total number of unique words is 1579
    47.5 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    66.3 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    74.7 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 13
    Total number of words is 4895
    Total number of unique words is 1519
    51.3 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    68.0 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    76.4 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 14
    Total number of words is 4800
    Total number of unique words is 1646
    46.3 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    65.8 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    74.3 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 15
    Total number of words is 4814
    Total number of unique words is 1688
    44.7 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    62.8 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    73.6 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.
  • The Revolt of the Angels - 16
    Total number of words is 1300
    Total number of unique words is 598
    55.4 of words are in the 2000 most common words
    70.0 of words are in the 5000 most common words
    78.6 of words are in the 8000 most common words
    Each bar represents the percentage of words per 1000 most common words.