Sarah sent a note to the paper asking the editor to communicate with “F. C.” and ask him if he would call upon Sarah Bernhardt, who wished to thank him. She named a day and a time.
At the appointed hour a call-boy came to her dressing-room with a card, on which was printed: “François Cohen.”
Ah! So this was “F. C.” Sarah’s eyes brightened in anticipation. She knew of a question that she meant to ask him.
The door opened and a little, round-shouldered man, with a hooked nose and beady, sparkling eyes came in. He was dressed in a suit of clothes two sizes too big for him; one of his shoes was unlaced and he kept his hat on.
Without preamble he advanced into the room with a short, mincing gait, trotted over to where Sarah sat regarding him with astonishment and suspicion, seized her hand, which he pecked at with his lips, and then thrust a large book on the table in front of her and began to turn over the pages.
“I understand that you are very busy, mademoiselle,” he said, with a strong accent, “and so I have brought the catalogue that is likely to interest you, and I think we can agree very quickly. The prices are marked, but perhaps——”
Finally Sarah Bernhardt found her voice.
“Who,” she demanded, struggling with mingled surprise and indignation, “are you?”
The little Jew looked up, astonished.
“Why,” he answered, “I am François Cohen! Did not they give you my card? I was told to come up——”