“If all the aristocratic ladies who patronise us announced the fact,” replied he, gaily, “you would be astonished at our customers. Order a garment to measure at our place, it will equal one from Sauveur's, and will cost but half the money. But there, just because it's cheaper it's not so good.” “So it doesn't fit, this mantle you speak of?” resumed Madame de Boves. “Ah! now I remember the young person. It's rather dark in your ante-room.” “Yes,” added Madame Marty, “I was wondering where I had seen that figure. Well, go, my dear, don't stand on ceremony with us.” Henriette assumed a look of disdainful unconcern. “Oh, presently, there is no hurry.” The ladies continued to discuss the articles from the big shops. Then Madame de Boves spoke of her husband, who, she said, had gone to inspect the breeding depot at Saint-Lô; and just then Henriette was relating that through the illness of an aunt Madame Guibal had been suddenly called into Franche-Comté. Moreover, she did not reckon that day on Madame Bourdelais, who at the end of every month shut herself up with a needlewoman to look over her young people's under-linen. But Madame Marty seemed agitated with some secret trouble. Her husband's position at the Lycée Bonaparte was menaced, in consequence of lessons given by the poor man in certain doubtful institutions where a regular trade was carried on with the B.A. diplomas; the poor fellow picked up a pound where he could, feverishly, in order to meet the ruinous expenses which pillaged his household; and his wife, on seeing him weeping one evening in the fear of a dismissal, had conceived the idea of getting her friend Henriette to speak to a director at the Ministry of Public Instruction with whom she was acquainted. Henriette finished by quieting her with a few words. It was understood that Monsieur Marty was coming himself to know his fate and to thank her. “You look ill, Monsieur Mouret,” observed Madame de Boves. “Overwork!” repeated De Vallagnosc, with his ironical phlegm. Mouret quickly got up, as if ashamed at forgetting himself thus. He went and took his accustomed place in the midst of the ladies, summoning up all his agreeable talent. He was now occupied with the winter novelties, and spoke of a considerable arrival of lace; and Madame de Boves questioned him as to the price of Bruges lace: she felt inclined to buy some. She had now got so far as to economise the thirty-sous for a cab, often going home quite ill from the effects of stopping before the windows. Draped in a mantle which was already two years old she tried, in imagination, on her queenly shoulders all the dearest things she saw; and it was like tearing her flesh away when she awoke and found herself dressed in her patched, old dresses, without the slightest hope of ever satisfying her passion. “Baron Hartmann,” announced the man-servant.