Madam Cottin did not go to bed that night, but labored without relaxation to have her book ready by the appointed hour, and to receive the twelve hundred francs, by which she was to aid the escape of her husband’s friend. Morning and noon passed, the sun began to decline, and as the clock sounded five, she finished the last letter. The same moment the door of her chamber was opened with violence, and Marianne, weeping, rushed in, followed by a motley crowd of soldiers and “citizens,” the porter at their head. “In the name of the law, search every where,” said a municipal officer; and in an instant they were ransacking every corner of the apartment. As soon as Madam Cottin could recover her self-possession, which had deserted her at first sight of these intruders, she demanded, “What do you here—and what do you wish of me, sirs?” Carrying his hand to his cap with a military air, the officer replied, “Citizen, you are accused of holding correspondence with the enemies of France, and we are ordered to seize your papers.” “Me, sir, holding correspondence with the enemy!” cried Madam Cottin, in a tone of surprise; “me, a poor widow, without friends and without experience! Who has been so base as to invent this falsehood?” “If you are innocent, you have nothing to fear,” replied the officer, “and the examination of your papers will clear you without doubt.” “Take them, then,” said Madam Cottin, assisting them in the search. The officer examined packages of letters from her husband, her mother, her schoolmates, some large writing books in which were registered the fruits of her studies, and some loose papers in her port-folio, without finding any thing which could excite suspicion. At length the manuscript of _Claire d’Albe_, lying on the table, attracted his eye, and approaching it, he laid his hand upon it. Madam Cottin could not refrain from a cry of affright. “Oh, for pity! pity! do not touch that!” “Ah! we have reached the hiding-place at last!” said the officer, beginning to collect the scattered leaves. “Sir,” said the lady, anxiously, “those papers do not endanger in any way the security of the state, I assure you; nay, I will most solemnly swear it!” “Why then this fear?” said the officer, still gathering up the leaves. “Because—because—they are invaluable to me, though they can be of little use to you. Oh! I am telling you the truth! Give them back, I beseech you!” “Oh, yes, Mr. Officer!” interposed Marianne, “that is nothing but a romance, which my mistress sold yesterday for twelve hundred francs, to buy a piano. This is all the mystery, and if I were to die to-day, I have told you the exact truth. But if you do not believe what I have said, here comes the bookseller, and you can ask him yourselves.” As she spoke, this personage entered the apartment. “Speak, sir,” cried Marianne, rushing toward the bookseller, “make clear the innocence of my mistress. Say to these gentlemen what these papers are.”