“That weight of wood, with leathern coat overlaid,
     Those ample clasps of solid metal made,
     The close pressed leaves unclosed for many an age,
     The dull red edging of the well-filled page,
     And the broad back, with stubborn ridges roll’d,
     Where yet the title stands in tarnished gold!”

They only can sympathize in the eagerness with which I snatch up the precious volume, the haste with which I count out the five and twenty francs, the delight with which I see the dealer’s hand close on the sum, and know that the book is legally and indisputably mine!  Then how lovingly I embrace it under my arm, and taking advantage of my position as a purchaser, stroll leisurely round the inner warehouse, still courting that literary world which (in a library at least) always turns its back upon its worshipper!

“Pray, Monsieur,” says a gentle voice at the door, “where is that old Froissart that I saw outside about a quarter of an hour ago?”

“Just sold, Madame,” replies the bookseller, promptly.

“Oh, how unfortunate!—­and I only went home for the money” exclaims the lady in a tone of real disappointment.

Selfishly exultant, I hug the book more closely, turn to steal a glance at my defeated rival, and recognise—­Mademoiselle Dufresnoy.

She does not see me.  I am standing in the inner gloom of the shop, and she is already turning away.  I follow her at a little distance; keep her in sight all the way home; let her go into the house some few seconds in advance; and then, scaling three stairs at a time, overtake her at the door of her apartment.

Flushed and breathless, I stand beside her with Froissart in my hand.

“Pardon, Mademoiselle,” I say, hurriedly, “for having involuntarily forestalled you just now.  I had just bought the book you wished to purchase,”

She looks at me with evident surprise and some coldness; but says nothing.

“And I am rejoiced to have this opportunity of transferring it to you.”

Mademoiselle Dufresnoy makes a slight but decided gesture of refusal.

“I would not deprive you of it, Monsieur,” she says promptly, “upon any consideration.”

“But, Mademoiselle, unless you allow me to relinquish it in your favor, I beg to assure you that I shall take the book back to the bookseller and exchange it for some other.”

“I cannot conceive why you should do that, Monsieur.”

“In order, Mademoiselle, that you may still have it in your power to become the purchaser.”

“And yet you wished to possess the book, or you would not have bought it.”

“I would not have bought it, Mademoiselle, if I had known that I should disappoint a—­a lady by doing so,”

I was on the point of saying, “if I had known that I should disappoint you by so doing,” but hesitated, and checked myself in time.

A half-mocking smile flitted across her lips.