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I represent the leading houses of the capital, and in the hope that you will kindly honour me with your confidence, I take the liberty to offer you a few novelties." Kind gods! just gods! such novelties as the homunculus Coccoz showed me! The first volume that he put in my hand was "L'Histoire de la Tour de Nesle," with the amours of Marguerite de Bourgogne and the Captain Buridan.
While Therese went off with a sigh to get the Sevres vases, I continued to contemplate those beautiful scattered violets, whose odour spread all about me like the perfume of some sweet presence, some charming soul; and I asked myself how it had been possible for me never to recognise Madame Coccoz in the person of the Princess Trepof.
This is perhaps why I find myself aware, while reading it, of a state of mind which in nature more imaginative than mine might be called reverie. I had allowed myself to drift away this gently upon the current of my thoughts, when my housekeeper announced, in a tone of ill-humor, that Monsieur Coccoz desired to speak with me. In fact, some one had slipped into the library after her.
"I will sell you that book for one franc twenty-five centimes, Monsieur," replied Coccoz, whose face at once beamed with joy. "It is historical; and you will be pleased with it. I know now just what suits you. I see that you are a connoisseur. To-morrow I will bring you the Crimes des Papes. It is a good book. I will bring you the edition d'amateur, with coloured plates."
It seemed to me though I only saw her for a moment on the stairs that Madame Coccoz was very fond of her child. For that mother's love at least, she deserves credit." "As far as that goes, Monsieur, certainly the little one never wanted for anything. In all the Quarter one could not have found a child better kept, or better nourished, or more petted and coddled.
"Yes, Monsieur," answered the homunculus; "the book is complete, and it is not dear one franc twenty-five centimes, Monsieur." I called my housekeeper for there is no bell in my room and said to her: "Therese, Monsieur Coccoz whom I am going to ask you to show out has a book here which might interest you: the 'Key of Dreams. I shall be very glad to buy it for you."
I was answered that I would never see him again. The poor little man had been laid away underground, without my knowledge, and, indeed, with the knowledge of very few people, on a short time after the happy delivery of Madame Coccoz. I leaned that his wife had been able to console herself: I did likewise. "But, Therese," I asked, "has Madame Coccoz got everything she needs in that attic of hers?"
"The woman I saw just now was dressed like a duchess, and had a little boy with her, with lace-frills all along the seams of his clothes. And it was that same little Madame Coccoz you once sent a log to, when she was lying-in here about eleven years ago. I recognized her at once." "What!" I exclaimed, "you mean to say it was Madame Coccoz, the widow of the almanac-peddler?" "Herself, Monsieur!
Monsieur has thousands and thousands of books, which simply turn his head; and as for me, I have just tow, which are quite enough for all my wants and purposes my Catholic prayer-book and my Cuisiniere Bourgeoise." And with those words my housekeeper helped the little man to fasten up his stock again within the green toilette. The homunculus Coccoz had ceased to smile.
"Therese, who can that young mother be whom I saw bareheaded on the stairs just now, with a pretty little boy?" And Therese replies that it was Madame Coccoz. I stare up at the ceiling, as if trying to obtain some further illumination. Therese then recalls to me the little book-peddler who tried to sell me almanacs last year, while his wife was lying in. "And Coccoz himself?" I asked.
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