"Louise, born at Montmartre, aged eighteen years; who will marry her for three years, at the price of fifteen crowns?" the company's agent asked in his sarcastic voice. The poor girl buried her face in her hands and wept bitterly. "Twenty crowns for Louise," an adventurer shouted, drawing nearer. "Twenty-five," another said immediately. "Make her hold her head up so that we can have a look at her," a third cried brutally. "Come, little one," the agent said, as he obliged her to remove her hands from her face; "be polite and let them look at you, it is for your own good, hang it all! Twenty-five crowns." "Fifty," said Belle Tête, without moving from the spot. All eyes were turned to him; up to this moment Belle Tête had professed a profound hatred for marriage. "Sixty," shouted an adventurer who did not desire to buy the girl, but wished to annoy his comrade. "Seventy," said another with the same charitable intention. "One hundred," Belle Tête shouted angrily. "One hundred crowns, gentlemen, one hundred for Louise for three years," the stoical agent said. "One hundred and fifty." "Two hundred." "Two hundred and fifty." "Three hundred," several adventurers shouted, almost simultaneously, as they drew nearer to the platform. Belle Tête was pale with rage, for he feared lest she might escape him. The adventurer had persuaded himself, rightly or wrongly, that he wanted a wife to manage his household; now he had seen Louise, Louise pleased him, she was for sale, and he resolved to buy her. "Four hundred crowns!" he said with an air of defiance. "Four hundred crowns," the company's agent repeated in his monotonous voice. There was a silence. Four hundred crowns is a large sum; Belle Tête triumphed. "Five hundred!" a sharp shrill voice suddenly shouted. The contest was beginning again; the adversaries had only stopped to regain their strength. The company's agent rubbed his hands with a jubilant air, while repeating,-- "Six hundred, seven, eight, nine hundred crowns!" A species of frenzy had seized on the spectators, and all bid furiously; the girl was still weeping. Belle Tête was in a state of fury which approached to madness; clutching his fusil frenziedly in his clinched hand, he felt a wild temptation to send a bullet into the most determined of his competitors. Only the presence of M. de Fontenay restrained him. "A thousand," he shouted in a hoarse voice. "One thousand two hundred!" the most obstinate competitor immediately yelled. Belle Tête stamped savagely, threw his fusil on his shoulder, drew his cap on to his head with a blow of his fist, and then with a step as slow and solemn as that of a statue would be, if a statue could walk, he went to place himself by the side of his unendurable rival, and letting the butt of his fusil fall heavily on the ground, scarce an inch from the man's foot, he looked him in the face for a moment with a defiant air, and shouted in a voice choked by emotion,-- "Fifteen hundred!"