ON the 16th，at one o'clock，I made my way to the rue d'Antin.
The raised voices of the auctioneers could be heard from the carriage entrance.
The apartment was filled with inquisitive spectators.
All the famous names from the world of fashionable vice were there.They were being slyly observed by a number of society ladies who had again used the sale as a pretext for claiming the right to see，at close quarters，women in whose company they would not otherwise have had occasion to find themselves，and whose easy pleasures they perhaps secretly envied.
The Duchesse de F rubbed shoulders with Mademoiselle A，one of sorriest specimens of our modern courtesans；the Marquise de T shrank from buying an item of furniture for which the bidding was led by Madame D，the most elegant and most celebrated adulteress of our age；the Duc d'Y，who is believed in Madrid to be ruining himself in Paris，and in Paris to be ruining himself in Madrid，and who，when all is said and done，cannot even spend all his income，while continuing to chat with Madame M，one of our wittiest tale-tellers，who occasionally agrees to write down what she says and to sign what she writes，was exchanging confidential glances with Madame de N，the beauty who may be regularly seen driving on the Champs-Elysees，dressed almost invariably in pink or blue，in a carriage drawn by two large black horses sold to her by Tony for ten thousand francs……and paid for in full；lastly，Mademoiselle R，who by sheer talent makes twice what ladies of fashion make with their dowries，and three times as much as what the rest make out of their love affairs，had come in spite of the cold to make a few purchases，and it was not she who attracted the fewest eyes.
We could go on quoting the initials of many of those who had gathered in that drawing room and who were not a little astonished at the company they kept；but we should，we fear，weary the reader.
Suffice it to say that everyone was in the highest spirits and that，of all the women there，many had known the dead girl and gave no sign that they remembered her.
There was much loud laughter；the auctioneers shouted at the tops of their voices；the dealers who had crowded on to the benches placed in front of the auction tables called vainly for silence in which to conduct their business in peace.Never was a gathering more varied and more uproarious.
I slipped unobtrusively into the middle of the distressing tumult，saddened to think that all this was taking place next to the very room where the unfortunate creature whose furniture was being sold up to pay her debts，had breathed her last.Having come to observe rather than to buy，I watched the faces of the tradesmen who had forced the sale and whose features lit up each time an item reached a price they had never dared hope for.
Honest，men all，who had speculated in the prostitution of this woman，had obtained a one hundred per cent return on her，had dogged the last moments of her life with writs，and came after she was dead to claim both the fruits of their honourable calculations and the interest accruing on the shameful credit they had given her.
How right were the Ancients who had one God for merchants and thieves！
Dresses，Indian shawls，jewels，came under the hammer at an unbelievable rate.None of it took my fancy，and I waited on.
Suddenly I heard a voice shout：
'A book fully bound，gilt-edges，entitled：Manon Lescaut.There's something written on the first page：ten francs.'
'Twelve，'said a voice，after a longish silence.
'Fifteen，'I said.
Why？I had no idea.No doubt for that something written'.
'Fifteen，'repeated the auctioneer.
'Thirty，'said the first bidder，in a tone which seemed to defy anybody to go higher.
It was becoming a fight.
'Thirty-five！'I cried，in the same tone of voice.
'Forty.'
'Fifty.'
'Sixty.'
'A hundred.'
I confess that if I had set out to cause a stir，I would have succeeded completely，for my last bid was followed by a great silence，and people stared at me to see who this man was who seemed so intent on possessing the volume.
Apparently the tone in which I had made my latest bid was enough for my opponent：he chose therefore to abandon a struggle which would have served only to cost me ten times what the book was worth and，with a bow，he said very graciously but a little late：
'It's yours，sir.'
No other bids were forthcoming，and the book was knocked down to me.
Since I feared a new onset of obstinacy which my vanity might conceivably have borne but which would have assuredly proved too much for my purse，I gave my name，asked for the volume to be put aside and left by the stairs.I must have greatly intrigued the onlookers who，having witnessed this scene，doubtless wondered why on earth I had gone there to pay a hundred francs for a book that I could have got anywhere for ten or fifteen at most.
An hour later，I had sent round for my purchase.
On the first page，written in ink in an elegant hand，was the dedication of the person who had given the book.This dedication consisted simply of these words：
'Manon to Marguerite，Humility.'
It was signed：Armand Duval.
What did this word'Humility'mean？
Was it that Manon，in the opinion of this Monsieur Armand Duval，acknowledged Marguerite as her superior in debauchery or in true love？
The second interpretation seemed the more likely，for the first was impertinently frank，and Marguerite could never have accepted it，whatever opinion she had of herself.
I went out again and thought no more of the book until that night，when I retired to bed.
