She looked at me a long time, searching me body and soul, and repeated: "Oh! if you would! What a success!" I offered a heap of objections, my lack of fine linen, of costumes, of jewels. The old woman reassured me. "Oh! if that's all," said she, "you need not worry, because in my house, you understand, natural beauty is the chief adornment." "Yes, yes, I know, but still...." "I assure you that you need not worry," she insisted, with benevolence. "Listen, sign a contract with me for three months, and I will give you an outfit of the best, such as no soubrette of the Théâtre-Français ever had. My word for it!" I asked time to reflect. "Well, all right! reflect," counseled this dealer in human flesh. "Let me give you my address, at any rate. When your heart speaks,--well, you will have only to come. Oh! I am perfectly confident. And to-morrow I am going to announce you to the president of the republic." We had finished drinking. The old woman settled for the two glasses, and took from a little black pocket-book a card, which she slyly slipped into my hand. When she had gone, I looked at the card, and I read: MADAME REBECCA RANVET _Millinery_ At Mme. Paulhat-Durand's I witnessed some extraordinary scenes. As I cannot describe them all, unfortunately, I select one to serve as an example of what goes on daily in this house. I have said that the upper part of the partition separating the ante-room from the bureau consists of a strip of glass covered with transparent curtains. In the middle of the strip is a casement-window, ordinarily closed. One day I noticed that, by some oversight, of which I resolved to take advantage, it had been left partly open. Putting a small stool upon the bench, I stood upon it, and thus succeeded in touching with my chin the frame of the casement-window, which I softly pushed. I was thus enabled to look into the room, and here is what I saw. A lady was seated in an arm-chair; a chambermaid was standing in front of her; in the corner Mme. Paulhat-Durand was distributing some cards among the compartments of a drawer. The lady had come from Fontainebleau in search of a servant. She may have been fifty years old. In appearance a rich and rough _bourgeoise_, dressed soberly, provincial in her austerity. The maid, puny and sickly, with a complexion that had been made livid by poor food and lack of food, had nevertheless a sympathetic face, which, under more fortunate circumstances, would perhaps have been pretty. She was very clean and trim in a black skirt. A black jersey moulded her thin form, and on her head she wore a linen cap, prettily set back, revealing her brow and her curly brown hair. After a detailed, sustained, offensive, aggressive examination, the lady at last made up her mind to speak. "Then," said she, "you offer yourself as ... what? As a chambermaid?" "Yes, Madame." "You do not look like one. What is your name?" "Jeanne Le Godec." "What did you say?"