“No, of the author, not having time to read our books ourselves, you understand, it is almost always the name of the author that we buy.”
“But, sir, the work is written by me, and my name is not known,” said Madam Cottin, almost discouraged; “if you would take the trouble to read it,” and she presented, hesitatingly, a little roll of papers.
“I have no doubt,” replied the bookseller, blandly, “it is a master-piece; it would be useless for me to read it—I would find it perfect. But business is not profitable just at this time. Some other time, when you shall have become known—”
“If all booksellers were like you, we would never be known,” impatiently interrupted Marianne. “Let us go, we have not got the piano yet.”
“No,” replied Madam Cottin, “but God always places good and bad fortune side by side; we will go in here,” and she boldly crossed the threshold of a second shop.
The appearance of this bookseller was more engaging than that of his neighbor. On seeing a lady enter, he advanced courteously toward her.
“What can I do to serve you?” he asked; then offering a seat to Marianne, and one to Sophie, he remained standing before the latter, who said to him,
“I am afraid of a disappointment, sir, after one failure to-day. I have written a little story—”
“Which you wish to have printed?” asked the bookseller.
“If you think it worthy of it, sir.”