“Both gentlemen are engaged,” said the man.
“I will wait.”
Left to himself, the poet scrutinized the packages, and amused himself for a couple of hours by scanning the titles of books, looking into them, and reading a page or two here and there. At last, as he stood leaning against a window, he heard voices, and suspecting that the green curtains hid either Vidal or Porchon, he listened to the conversation.
“Will you take five hundred copies of me? If you will, I will let you have them at five francs, and give fourteen to the dozen.”
“What does that bring them in at?”
“Sixteen sous less.”
“Four francs four sous?” said Vidal or Porchon, whichever it was.
“Yes,” said the vendor.
“Credit your account?” inquired the purchaser.
“Old humbug! you would settle with me in eighteen months’ time, with bills at a twelvemonth.”