And he showed Gazonal one of those untidy shops which made an ugly stain in the midst of the dazzling show-windows of modern retail commerce. This shop had a front painted in 1820, which some bankrupt had doubtless left in a dilapidated condition. The color had disappeared beneath a double coating of dirt, the result of usage, and a thick layer of dust; the window-panes were filthy, the door-knob turned of itself, as door-knobs do in all places where people go out more quickly than they enter. “What do you say of _that_? First cousin to Death, isn’t she?” said Leon in Gazonal’s ear, showing him, at the desk, a terrible individual. “Well, she calls herself Madame Nourrisson.” “Madame, how much is this guipure?” asked the manufacturer, intending to compete in liveliness with the two artists. “To you, monsieur, who come from the country, it will be only three hundred francs,” she replied. Then, remarking in his manner a sort of eagerness peculiar to Southerners, she added, in a grieved tone, “It formerly belonged to that poor Princess de Lamballe.” “What! do you dare exhibit it so near the palace?” cried Bixiou. “Monsieur, _they_ don’t believe in it,” she replied. “Madame, we have not come to make purchases,” said Bixiou, with a show of frankness. “So I see, monsieur,” returned Madame Nourrisson. “We have several things to sell,” said the illustrious caricaturist. “I live close by, rue de Richelieu, 112, sixth floor. If you will come round there for a moment, you may perhaps make some good bargains.” Ten minutes later Madame Nourrisson did in fact present herself at Bixiou’s lodgings, where by that time he had taken Leon and Gazonal. Madame Nourrisson found them all three as serious as authors whose collaboration does not meet with the success it deserves. “Madame,” said the intrepid hoaxer, showing her a pair of women’s slippers, “these belonged formerly to the Empress Josephine.” He felt it incumbent on him to return change for the Prince de Lamballe. “Those!” she exclaimed; “they were made this year; look at the mark.” “Don’t you perceive that the slippers are only by way of preface?” said Leon; “though, to be sure, they are usually the conclusion of a tale.” “My friend here,” said Bixiou, motioning to Gazonal, “has an immense family interest in ascertaining whether a young lady of a good and wealthy house, whom he wishes to marry, has ever gone wrong.” “How much will monsieur give for the information,” she asked, looking at Gazonal, who was no longer surprised by anything. “One hundred francs,” he said. “No, thank you!” she said with a grimace of refusal worthy of a macaw. “Then say how much you want, my little Madame Nourrisson,” cried Bixiou catching her round the waist.