s and looked at herself in the
glass. The proprietor took it to the light, gathered it up in his hands,
smoothed it out, showed the gloss on it, played on it as Liszt plays on
the pianoforte keys.

"It is very fine; beautiful, sweet!" said the lady, as composedly as
possible.

Duronceret, Bixiou, and the shopmen exchanged amused glances. "The shawl
is sold," they thought.

"Well, madame?" inquired the proprietor, as the Englishwoman appeared to
be absorbed in meditations infinitely prolonged.

"Decidedly," said she; "I would rather have a carriage" (_une voteure_).

All the assistants, listening with silent rapt attention, started as one
man, as if an electric shock had gone through them.

"I have a very handsome one, madame," said the proprietor with unshaken
composure; "it belonged to a Russian princess, the Princess Narzicof;
she left it with me in payment for goods received. If madame would like
to see it, she would be astonished. It is new; it has not been in use
altogether for ten days; there is not its like in Paris."

The shopmen's amazement was suppressed by profound admiration.

"I am quite willing."

"If madame will keep the shawl," suggested the proprietor, "she can try
the effect in the carriage." And he went for his hat and gloves.

"How will this end?" asked the head assistant, as he watched his
employer offer an arm to the English lady and go down with her to the
jobbed brougham.

By this time the thing had come to be as exciting as the last chapter of
a novel for Duronceret and Bixiou, even without the additional interest
attached to all contests, however trifling, between England and France.

Twenty minutes later the proprietor returned.

"Go to the Hotel Lawson (here is the card, 'Mrs. Noswell'), and take an
invoice that I will give you. There are six thousand francs to take."

"How did you do it?" asked Duronceret, bowing before the king of
invoices.

"Oh, I saw what she was, an eccentric woman that loves to be
conspicuous. As soon as she saw that every one stared at her, she said,
'Keep your carriage, monsieur, my mind is made up; I will take the
shawl.' While M. Bigorneau (indicating the romantic-looking assistant)
was serving, I watched her carefully; she kept one eye on you all the
time to see what you thought of her; she was thinking more about you
than of the shawls. Englishwomen are peculiar in their _distaste_ (for
one cannot call it taste); they do not know what they want;