The bookseller looking at the packet which the officer held in his hand, replied, “That is a romance which I bought yesterday of madam.” Madam Cottin, seemingly insensible to what was passing around her, followed with her eyes the minute-hand of the clock, which was approaching nearer and nearer to the eighth hour. There was a short interval of silence, when the officer replied, “I am inclined to believe, sir, that this is, as you say, a romance; but what difference can it make to you or madam, if I carry it to the _Section_? I will return it in the morning.” Madam Cottin grew desperate. The hands on the dial-plate marked seven o’clock and five minutes. “Let me read you one of the letters, sirs, and if you find in it a line to suspect, I will give the book into your hands.” “I see no objection,” replied the officer, and accordingly, Madam Cottin, taking up the first letter, commenced reading. As she proceeded, the attention of her audience became more and more profound; their countenances betrayed emotion; soon tears started from their eyes, and at length one of the auditors, interrupting the fair reader, threw himself upon his knees before her. “I am a miserable wretch, madam, do what you please with me! It was I who denounced you—I who first suspected your daily habit of writing; no, there is no torture that I do not deserve! Oh! what you have written is beautiful! it is beautiful! I will buy the book when it is printed; I will learn to read—I, and my wife, and my children. Sir,” he added, turning toward the bookseller, “I wish the first copy you send out of your shop, and I will pay you any price you ask. I am Jean Paul, porter of house number forty-six, in _la rue Chanteriene_. And now, madam, pardon me—will you say that you pardon me?” Madam Cottin cast a look at the dial—_it wanted but five minutes of eight!_ She rose hastily. “Yes, yes, I pardon you. Sir Officer, you leave me my manuscript, do you not?” added she, turning to the officer, who wiped his eyes, while the porter remained sobbing in his place. “Certainly, madam,” replied he; “I leave you all your papers. I see that the republic of France has nothing to fear from you; and in taking my leave; I beg you to excuse our seeming rudeness.” At this moment three blows were struck upon the window. Madam Cottin turned pale as death— “Not yet—not yet!” said she, recovering herself instantly, and intending the words to have a meaning which should apply to the person without, as well as to those within. As she turned toward her secretary, the bookseller, unobserved by the rest, slipped a small roleau of gold into her hand—the price of the romance. “We fear we are abusing your politeness,” said the officer, rising to leave. A second blow, stronger than the first, rattled upon the glass. Sophie turned paler than before.