“But, sir, the work is written by me, and my name is not known,” said Madam Cottin, almost discouraged; “if you would take the trouble to read it,” and she presented, hesitatingly, a little roll of papers. “I have no doubt,” replied the bookseller, blandly, “it is a master-piece; it would be useless for me to read it—I would find it perfect. But business is not profitable just at this time. Some other time, when you shall have become known—” “If all booksellers were like you, we would never be known,” impatiently interrupted Marianne. “Let us go, we have not got the piano yet.” “No,” replied Madam Cottin, “but God always places good and bad fortune side by side; we will go in here,” and she boldly crossed the threshold of a second shop. The appearance of this bookseller was more engaging than that of his neighbor. On seeing a lady enter, he advanced courteously toward her. “What can I do to serve you?” he asked; then offering a seat to Marianne, and one to Sophie, he remained standing before the latter, who said to him, “I am afraid of a disappointment, sir, after one failure to-day. I have written a little story—” “Which you wish to have printed?” asked the bookseller. “If you think it worthy of it, sir.” “It will be necessary to see it, madam—have you the manuscript?” Sophie’s hand trembled as she presented it to him. “It is very small,” said the bookseller, glancing at it; “it will make a very small volume. It is a romance, in letters. Will you allow me to look at it?” “Certainly. I am ignorant of the value of the work; having written it within the last five days, I have not bestowed upon it either the time or labor of retouching it; but I am in need of twelve hundred francs. I need it by to-morrow evening; see, sir, if you can give them to me.” “Since you request so early a decision, I will ask only time to read three letters—one at the commencement, one in the middle, and one at the end of the book; and I will then be able to give you my opinion of the rest.” With these words the bookseller retired behind a railing, hung with green curtains, and applied himself to reading the manuscript. Meanwhile Madam Cottin remained seated with her old nurse, unable to conceal the anxiety which devoured her. “You are afraid that you will not get your piano, are you not, madam?” “Yes, yes,” she replied, without knowing what she was saying. “But why is it necessary for you to have the money to-morrow evening? Is it because the poor countess, who offers to sell you one, demands it immediately? Jean Paul, her porter, told me that she would give long time. You have spoken of it, then, to the countess?” “Yes, yes, he seems satisfied!” exclaimed Sophie, anxiously scrutinizing the countenance of the bookseller. At this moment the bookseller rose from his seat. Sophie’s heart beat as he approached.