It was a woman of forty-five, who occasionally journeyed to Paris from the depths of some out-of-the-way place. There she saved up for months; then, hardly out of the train, she made straight for The Ladies' Paradise, and spent all her savings. She very rarely ordered anything by letter, she liked to see and handle the goods, and laid in a stock of everything, even down to needles, which she said were excessively dear in her small town. The whole staff knew her, that her name was Boutarel, and that she lived at Albi, but troubled no further about her, neither about her position nor her mode of life. “How do you do, madame?” graciously asked Madame Aurélie, who had come forward. “And what can we show you? You shall be attended to at once.” Then, turning round: “Now, young ladies!” Denise approached; but Clara had sprung forward. As a rule, she was very careless and idle, not caring about the money she earned in the shop, as she could get plenty outside, without trouble. But the idea of doing the new-comer out of a good customer spurred her on. “I beg your pardon, it's my turn,” said Denise, indignantly. Madame Aurélie set her aside with a severe look, saying: “There are no turns. I alone am mistress here. Wait till you know, before serving our regular customers.” The young girl retired, and as the tears were coming in her eyes, and she wished to conceal this excess of sensibility, she turned her back, standing up before the window, pretending to be looking into the street. Were they going to prevent her selling? Would they all arrange together to deprive her of the important sales, like that? A fear for the future seized her, she felt herself crushed between so many interests let loose. Yielding to the bitterness of her abandonment, her forehead against the cold glass, she gazed at The Old Elbeuf opposite, thinking she ought to have implored her uncle to keep her. Perhaps he himself regretted his decision, for he seemed to her greatly affected the previous evening. Now she was quite alone in this vast house, where no one liked her, where she found herself hurt, lost. Pépé and Jean, who had never left her side, were living with strangers; it was a cruel separation, and the big tears which she kept back made the street dance in a sort of fog. All this time, the hum of voices continued behind her. “This one makes me look a fright,” Madame Boutarel was saying. “You really make a mistake, madame,” said Clara; “the shoulders fit perfectly--but perhaps you would prefer a pelisse to a mantle?” But Denise started. A hand was laid on her arm. Madame Aurélie addressed her severely: “Well, you're doing nothing now--eh? only looking at the people passing. Things can't go on this way, you know!” “But they prevent me selling, madame.” “Oh, there's other work for you, mademoiselle! Begin at the beginning. Do the folding-up.”