“Take them, then,” said Madam Cottin, assisting them in the search. The officer examined packages of letters from her husband, her mother, her schoolmates, some large writing books in which were registered the fruits of her studies, and some loose papers in her port-folio, without finding any thing which could excite suspicion.
At length the manuscript of Claire d’Albe, lying on the table, attracted his eye, and approaching it, he laid his hand upon it. Madam Cottin could not refrain from a cry of affright.
“Oh, for pity! pity! do not touch that!”
“Ah! we have reached the hiding-place at last!” said the officer, beginning to collect the scattered leaves.
“Sir,” said the lady, anxiously, “those papers do not endanger in any way the security of the state, I assure you; nay, I will most solemnly swear it!”
“Why then this fear?” said the officer, still gathering up the leaves.
“Because—because—they are invaluable to me, though they can be of little use to you. Oh! I am telling you the truth! Give them back, I beseech you!”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Officer!” interposed Marianne, “that is nothing but a romance, which my mistress sold yesterday for twelve hundred francs, to buy a piano. This is all the mystery, and if I were to die to-day, I have told you the exact truth. But if you do not believe what I have said, here comes the bookseller, and you can ask him yourselves.”
As she spoke, this personage entered the apartment.
“Speak, sir,” cried Marianne, rushing toward the bookseller, “make clear the innocence of my mistress. Say to these gentlemen what these papers are.”