And he glanced towards a lady who was walking off, casting looks of disgust at all the goods. He was not likely to get fat on his thousand francs a year, unless he sold something; as a rule he made seven or eight francs a day commission, which gave him with his regular pay an average of ten francs a day. Favier never made much more than eight, and there was this animal taking the bread out of his mouth, for he had just sold another dress--a cold-natured fellow who had never known how to amuse a customer! It was exasperating. “Those chaps over there seem to be doing very well,” remarked Favier, speaking of the salesmen in the hosiery and haberdashery departments. But Hutin, who was looking all round the place, suddenly asked: “Do you know Madame Desforges, the governor's sweetheart? Look! that dark woman in the glove department, who is having some gloves tried on by Mignot.” He stopped, then resumed in a low tone, as if speaking to Mignot, on whom he continued to keep his eyes: “Oh, go on, old man, you may pull her fingers about as much as you like, that won't do you any good! We know your conquests!” There was a rivalry between himself and the glove-man, the rivalry of two handsome fellows, who both affected to flirt with the lady-customers. As a matter of fact they had neither had any real conquests to boast about. Mignot lived on the legend of a police superintendent's wife who had fallen in love with him, whilst Hutin had really conquered a lace-maker who had got tired of wandering about in the doubtful hotels in the neighbourhood; but they invented a lot of mysterious adventures, leading people to believe in all sorts of appointments made by titled ladies, between two purchases. “You should get hold of her,” said Favier, in his sly, artful way. “That's a good idea!” exclaimed Hutin. “If she comes here I'll let her in for something extensive; I want a five-franc piece!” In the glove department quite a row of ladies were seated before the narrow counter covered with green velvet and edged with nickel silver; and the smiling shopmen were heaping up before them the flat boxes of a bright red, taken out of the counter itself, and resembling the ticketed drawers of a secrétaire. Mignot especially was bending his pretty doll-like face over his customer, his thick Parisian voice full of tender inflections. He had already sold Madame Desforges a dozen pairs of kid gloves, the Paradise gloves, one of the specialities of the house. She then took three pairs of Swedish, and was now trying on some Saxon gloves, for fear the size should not be exact. “Oh! quite perfect, madame!” repeated Mignot. “Six and a quarter would be too large for a hand like yours.”