Too much moved to venture a single word in reply, M. de Fombelle pressed her hand, leaped out of the window, and disappeared at the corner of a street yet inhabited by the Chaussée d’Antin.
The next morning had scarcely dawned, when Madam Cottin importuned her nurse to get breakfast; as soon as it was over, she gave her no time to arrange the furniture of the room.
“Come with me,” she said; “come with me, it is absolutely necessary that I sell Claire d’Albe this morning.”
“Ah, these young women!” exclaimed the nurse, as she complied; “these young women! when they once take a fancy, they have neither quiet nor reason. If the bookseller is as impatient to buy, as you are to sell, we shall soon have a piano, I see.”
From la rue Chanteriene to the quay, where, from time immemorial, the booksellers have had their shops, the walk was long, and Marianne harped upon the one idea of getting a piano, until they arrived at the place of their destination. After scrutinizing the long row of shops for a few moments, Madam Cottin selected one which had the most promising exterior.
“I can but fail,” said she, as she crossed the threshold. But as soon as she entered, she stopped, and remained, blushing, and with downcast eyes, before the bookseller, who advanced toward her, asking her what work she wished to purchase.
“It is not to purchase, but to sell, sir,” said Marianne, replying for her mistress, who could not overcome her embarrassment. “We have written a romance, and we have come to see if you wish to buy it. It is superb! I assure you, you have nothing in your shop which can compare with it.”
“Tut, tut, Marianne!” interrupted Madam Cottin, now sufficiently reassured to continue the negotiation. “Do you never buy manuscripts, sir?”
“Yes—no—that is—what is the name of the author?”
“The name of the book, sir, you mean to say?” timidly observed the young woman.