, and read: 'Francois
Rabelais, maitre en toutes sciences et bonnes lettres.' Enough! She
started up, hitting her head hard as she did so, and was not aware of it
till she was in the cab and on her way to the shop of the famous Bos in
the Rue de l'Abbaye.

She got down at the corner of the street. It is a short quiet street,
overshadowed by St. Germain des Pres and by the old red brick buildings
of the School of Surgery. A few of the surgeons' carriages, professional
broughams with splendid liveries, were in waiting. Scarcely anyone was
about. Pigeons were feeding on the pavement, and flew away as she came
to the shop opposite the school. It offers both books and curiosities,
and exhibits an archaic inscription, highly appropriate to such a nook
of Old Paris: 'Bos: Antiquary and Palaeographer.'

The shop-front displayed something of all sorts: old manuscripts,
ancient ledgers with mould spots on the edges, missals with damaged
gilding, book-clasps and book-covers. To the upper panes were fastened
assignats, old placards, plans of Paris, ballads, military franks with
spots of blood, autographs of all ages, some verses by Madame Lafargue,
two letters from Chateaubriand to 'Pertuze, Boot-maker, names of
celebrities ancient and modern at the foot of an invitation to dinner,
or perhaps a request for money, a complaint of poverty, a love letter,
&c, enough to cure anyone of writing for ever. All the autographs were
priced; and as Madame Astier paused for a moment before the window she
might see next to a letter of Rachel, price 12L., a letter from Leonard
Astier-Rehu to Petit Sequard, his publisher, price 2s. But this was
not what she came for: she was trying to discover, behind the screen
of green silk, the face of her intended customer, the master of the
establishment. She was seized with a sudden fear: suppose he was not at
home after all!

The thought of Paul waiting gave her determination, and she went into
the dark, close, dusty room. She was taken at once into a little closet
behind, and began to explain her business to M. Bos, who, with his large
red face and disordered hair, looked like a speaker at a public meeting.
A temporary difficulty--her husband did not like to come himself--and
so---- But before she could finish her lie, M. Bos, with a 'Pray,
madame, pray,' had produced a cheque on the Credit Lyonnais, and was
accompanying her with the utmost politeness to her cab.

'A very genteel person,' he said to him