"Nine hundred francs!"
"Nine hundred francs!" repeated Maître Berthelmot.
"Nine hundred and ten—fifteen—twenty—thirty!" squeaked the auctioneer's crier, with jerky shakes of his head as he cast a sweeping glance at those assembled around him.
"Show me that I am going to have a wife who is amenable to reason," said Frederick.
And he gently drew her towards the door.
The auctioneer proceeded:
"Come, come, messieurs; nine hundred and thirty. Is there any bidder at nine hundred and thirty?"
Madame Dambreuse, just as she had reached the door, stopped, and raising her voice to a high pitch:
"One thousand francs!"
There was a thrill of astonishment, and then a dead silence.