"Nonsense!"
"No, it's quite true! and he's an obstinate sort of beggar, too, he would have it that it wasn't by the father—what's his name? ah! I've forgotten already."
"Dumas!"
"Dumas! yes, that's it; and he kept on saying all the time, 'I know my Dumas well enough, and that book was never written by him.' Well, anyhow, he promised to try to get it, and to send it to you if it is to be had."
M. de Rueille was sorting out the letters, which had arrived during breakfast-time.
"Here's a letter from your bookseller, grandmamma," he said; "he evidently has not been able to get it."
"Open it, Paul, will you?"
Rueille tore open the envelope, and, taking out the letter, read as follows:
"Madam,—It is quite impossible to get the book which your nephew asked for. As we were anxious to execute your order, we sent to several of the principal booksellers, and even wired to Paris, but we were informed that there is not, and there never has been, a book entitled, 'Le Bâton de M. Molard.'"