“It is good, madam, very good! the conception is perfect; only one can see that you are not in the habit of writing, and it seems to me impossible to print it without corrections. As to the price, it is rather dear; but as you are in need of money, I will not deny it you. You will repay the difference in some other book which you will write for me, will you not?” “Oh, yes, sir, yes!” eagerly replied Madam Cottin. “Give me the manuscript, sir; to-morrow, at six o’clock, you shall have it corrected.” “And to-morrow, at six o’clock, your money shall be ready. Shall I bring it to you, that you may avoid going out at that hour? Do you wish this little sum in paper, in gold, or in silver?” “In gold, sir. Oh! you have saved more than my life!” said Madam Cottin, departing. “At last we shall have the piano!” said Marianne, running by the side of her mistress, scarcely able to keep even with her rapid pace. “Jean Paul,” said she, when they had arrived opposite to the countess’s residence, stopping a moment behind her mistress, “Jean Paul, you may tell the countess we will purchase the piano, and that we will pay her to-morrow evening—do you hear, Jean Paul?” “What have you been doing this morning, that you have found so much money to-day?” replied the porter, with a sneer; “has your mistress found a treasure?” “No, sir,” replied Marianne, angrily, “it is in her mind that she has a treasure—it is in her head.” “A trifle, citizen Marianne—a trifle! You told me she wrote, did you not? Now look you, I’ll put both of my hands into the fire, if your mistress is not a conspirator!” “What!—a conspirator! Do you know what you are saying, Mr. Jean Paul?” “Perfectly, citizen Marianne; and since your mistress loves ink, they are going to give her and her nurse some. Listen; I do not meddle—I say nothing, but I see all. This morning I had a little talk with the officer who lives near, and he is of my opinion concerning your mistress. She holds correspondence with the enemy—the English! Otherwise, why should she be writing all day? It is not natural for a woman to write so much. My wife never writes; it is true, she does not know how to write—but that makes no difference. Now I have an idea—I may have an idea, may I not?—well, I have an idea that she wishes to sell France; who knows but that she has already sold it, and that it is with some of the money she is going to buy the piano! O, my country—my poor country! into what hands have you fallen!” “You are either a fool, or you don’t love music, which is the same thing; for if I understand a word you say, I hope my head may be cut off!” With this retort, Marianne turned toward Madam Cottin’s apartments.