of a novel for Duronceret and Bixiou, even without the additional
interest attached to all contests, however trifling, between England
and France.

Twenty minutes later the proprietor returned.

"Go to the Hotel Lawson (here is the card, 'Mrs. Noswell'), and take
an invoice that I will give you. There are six thousand francs to
take."

"How did you do it?" asked Duronceret, bowing before the king of
invoices.

"Oh, I saw what she was, an eccentric woman that loves to be
conspicuous. As soon as she saw that every one stared at her, she
said, 'Keep your carriage, monsieur, my mind is made up; I will take
the shawl.' While M. Bigorneau (indicating the romantic-looking
assistant) was serving, I watched her carefully; she kept one eye on
you all the time to see what you thought of her; she was thinking more
about you than of the shawls. Englishwomen are peculiar in their
_distaste_ (for one cannot call it taste); they do not know what they
want; they make up their minds to be guided by circumstances at the
time, and not by their own choice. I saw the kind of woman at once,
tired of her husband, tired of her brats, regretfully virtuous,
craving excitement, always posing as a weeping willow. . . ."

These were his very words.

Which proves that in all other countries of the world a shopkeeper is
a shopkeeper; while in France, and in Paris more particularly, he is a