“Why, Monsieur Mouret told us you could do nothing with it.” Henriette affected the greatest surprise. “Monsieur Mouret was joking. The mantle will fit splendidly.” They had again returned to the big shops. Mouret had to give his opinion; he came up to them and affected to be very just The Bon Marche was an excellent house, solid, respectable, but the Louvre certainly had a more aristocratic 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 just that, they were at a sort of private party at The Ladies' Paradise, they felt, there a continual caress of flattery, an overflowing adoration which detained the most dignified and virtuous woman. The enormous success of the establishment sprung from this gallant seduction. “By the way,” asked Henriette, who wished to appear entirely at her ease, “what have you done with my protege. Monsieur Mouret? You know--Mademoiselle de Fontenailles.” And turning towards Madame Marty she explained, “A maricheness, poor girl, fallen into poverty.” “Oh!” said Mouret, “she earns three francs a day stitching.” De Vallagnosc wished to interfere for 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.” They set up a laugh, the paradox seemed rather strong. He continued to sing the praises of what he called the aristocracy of work. A slight flush had coloured Madame de Boves's cheeks, she was wild at the shifts she was put to by her poverty; whilst Madame Marty on the contrary approved, stricken with remorse on thinking of her poor husband. The footman had just ushered in the professor, who had called to take her home. He was drier, more emaciated than ever by his hard labour, and still wore his thin shining frock coat. When he had thanked Madame Desforges for having spoken for him at the Ministry, he cast at Mouret the timid glance of a man meeting the evil that is to kill him. And he was quite confused when he heard the latter asking him: “Isn't it true, sir, that work leads to everything?” “Work and economy,” replied he, with a slight shivering of his whole body. “Add economy, sir.” Meanwhile, Bouthemont had not moved from his chair, Mouret's words were still ringing in his ears. He at last got up, and went and said to Henriette in a low tone: “You know, he's given me notice; oh! in the kindest possible manner. But may I be hanged if he sha'n't repent it! I've just found my sign, The Four Seasons, and shall plant myself close to the Opera House!”