She was a clear-headed young woman, with simple tastes and an innate
propensity for saving money; so that when her apprenticeship expired
she had a sum laid by--small indeed, but still something--with which
she determined to try her fortune in England. She had picked up a
little of the language, and had obtained a few introductions to
compatriots living in London; so that when she arrived, she was not
wholly friendless or utterly dependent. Mademoiselle Anatole--born
in Lyons, but long resident in London--wanted a partner; and after a
very sharp wrangle, conducted by the ladies on each side with great
skill and diplomacy, a portion of Mademoiselle Clarisse's savings was
transferred to her countrywoman, and a limp and ill-printed circular
informed Mademoiselle Anatole's patronesses that she had just received
into partnership the celebrated Mademoiselle Clarisse from Paris, and
that they hoped henceforth, etc.
Mademoiselle Anatole lived on the first floor of an old house in the
Bloomsbury district, which had once been a fashionable mansion, but
which was now let out in lodgings. Under the French milliner, a German
importer of pipes and pictures and Bohemian glass had his rooms,
and his name, "Korb," shone out truculently from the street-door
jamb, towering above the milliner's more modest announcement of her
residence. The entire neighbourhood had a foreign and Bohemian flavour.
In an otherwise modest and British-looking house, Malmédie Frères
announced in black-and-gold letters, much too slim and upright, that
they kept an hotel "À la Boule d'Or." From the open windows in the
summer-time poured forth, mixed with clouds of tobacco-smoke, waitings
and roarings of the human voice, and poundings and grindings of pianos.
The artists-colourmen had the street on their books (keeping it there
as little as possible), canvases and millboards were perpetually
arriving at one or other of the houses where the windows looking
northward were run up into the next floor, and bearded men smoking
short pipes pervaded the neighbourhood night and day.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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