"So you've given it up as well?" exclaimed Madame de Boves, gaily. "How do you mean?" "Why, Monsieur Mouret told us that you could do nothing with it." Henriette affected the greatest surprise. "Monsieur Mouret was joking," said she. "The mantle will fit splendidly." She appeared very calm and smiling. No doubt she had bathed her eyes, for they were quite fresh, without the slightest trace of redness. Whilst her whole being was still trembling and bleeding, she managed to conceal her torment beneath a mask of smiling, well-bred elegance. And she offered some sandwiches to Vallagnosc with her usual graceful smile. Only the baron who knew her so well, remarked the slight contraction of her lips and the sombre fire which she had not been able to extinguish in the depths of her eyes. He guessed the whole scene. "Dear me! each one to her taste," said Madame de Boves, also accepting a sandwich. "I know some women who would never buy a ribbon except at the Louvre. Others swear by the Bon Marché. It's a question of temperament, no doubt." "The Bon Marché is very provincial," murmured Madame Marty, "and one gets so crushed at the Louvre." They had again returned to the big establishments. Mouret had to give his opinion; he came up to them and affected to be very impartial. The Bon Marché was an excellent house, solid and respectable; but the Louvre certainly had a more showy class of customers. "In short, you prefer The Ladies' Paradise," said the baron, smiling. "Yes," replied Mouret, quietly. "There we really love our customers." All the women present were of his opinion. It was indeed just that; at The Ladies' Paradise, they found themselves as at a sort of private party, they felt a continual caress of flattery, an overflowing adoration which made the most dignified of them linger there. The vast success of the establishment sprang from that gallant fascination. "By the way," asked Henriette, who wished to appear entirely at her ease, "what have you done with my protégée, Monsieur Mouret? You know--Mademoiselle de Fontenailles." And, turning towards Madame Marty, she explained, "A marchioness, my dear, a poor girl fallen into poverty." "Oh," said Mouret, "she earns three francs a day by stitching pattern-books, and I fancy I shall be able to marry her to one of my messengers." "Oh! fie! what a horror!" exclaimed Madame de Boves. He looked at her, and replied in his calm voice: "Why so, madame? Isn't it better for her to marry an honest, hard-working messenger than to run the risk of being picked up by some good-for-nothing fellow outside?" Vallagnosc wished to interfere, for the sake of a joke. "Don't push him too far, madame, or he'll tell you that all the old families of France ought to sell calico." "Well," declared Mouret, "it would at least be an honourable end for a great many of them."