Mlle. Jeanne rose, arranged her hair a little, followed the madame into the bureau, from which she returned a few moments later, with a grimace of disdain upon her lips. Her recommendations had not been found sufficient. What did they require then? The Monthyon prize? A maiden's diploma? Or else they had been unable to agree upon wages. "Oh! no, the mean things! A dirty dance hall ... nothing to pinch. She does her own marketing. Oh! la! la! Four children in the house! Think of it!" The whole punctuated by furious or obscene gestures. We all passed into the bureau by turns, summoned by Mme. Paulhat-Durand, whose voice grew shriller and shriller, and whose shining flesh at last became green with anger. For my part, I saw directly with whom I had to deal, and that the place did not suit me. Then, to amuse myself, instead of submitting to their stupid questions, I questioned the fine ladies themselves. "Madame is married?" "Undoubtedly." "Ah! And Madame has children?" "Certainly." "Dogs?" "Yes." "Madame makes the chambermaid sit up?" "When I go out in the evening ... evidently." "And Madame often goes out in the evening?" Pursing up her lips, she was about to answer; but I, casting a contemptuous glance at her hat, her costume, and her entire person, said, in a curt and disdainful voice: "I regret it, but Madame's place does not please me. I do not go into houses like Madame's." And I sailed out triumphantly. One day a little woman, with hair outrageously dyed, with lips painted with minium, with enameled cheeks, as insolent as a guinea-hen, and perfumed like a bidet, after asking me thirty-six questions, put a thirty-seventh: "Are you well behaved? Do you receive lovers?" "And Madame?" I answered very quietly, showing no astonishment. Some, less difficult to please, or more weary or more timid, accepted infected places. They were hooted. "_Bon voyage!_ We shall see you soon again." At the sight of us thus piled up on our benches, with legs spread apart, dreamy, stupid, or chattering, and listening to the successive calls of the madame: "Mademoiselle Victoire!... Mademoiselle Irène!... Mademoiselle Zulma!" it sometimes seemed to me as if we were in a public house, awaiting the next caller. That seemed to me funny or sad, I don't know which; and one day I remarked upon it aloud. There was a general outburst of laughter. Each one immediately delivered herself of all the exact and marvelous information of which she was in possession concerning establishments of that character. A fat and puffy creature, who was peeling an orange, said: "Surely that would be better. They are sure of a living in those places. And champagne, you know, young women; and chemises with silver stars; and no corsets!"