At this moment three blows were struck upon the window. Madam Cottin turned pale as death—
“Not yet—not yet!” said she, recovering herself instantly, and intending the words to have a meaning which should apply to the person without, as well as to those within. As she turned toward her secretary, the bookseller, unobserved by the rest, slipped a small roleau of gold into her hand—the price of the romance.
“We fear we are abusing your politeness,” said the officer, rising to leave. A second blow, stronger than the first, rattled upon the glass. Sophie turned paler than before.
“I pray you remain,” she replied, in a loud voice, adding, in a lower tone, “and you also, Jean Paul. Marianne, bring some of the wine of our country—Bordeaux. Gentlemen, you can not refuse to drink the prosperity of France? And now,” added she, “the excitement I have undergone—this fire, which is so warm—you will excuse me, if I step to the window a moment for fresh air.”
So saying, she went to the window, and opened the shutters, letting the curtains fall before her.
“Stop!” she said to M. de Fombelle, restraining him from entering the chamber, which he attempted, and handing him the rouleau of louis-d’ors—the price of her first book—“take this, and begone quickly; you are in danger if you remain. Adieu!”
Closing the shutters and the sash, she again appeared, smiling in the midst of the soldiers. Marianne returned the same moment with a salver covered with glasses, and bottles of wine.
“At last we shall have a piano, Sophie,” said she, turning toward her mistress to drink.
“Not yet, my good Marianne,” replied Sophie, with a joyful tone, which contradicted her reply.
