She drew nearer to me, lowering her voice.
"And if I were to tell you that the president of the republic himself . . . why, yes, my little one! That gives you an idea of what my house is.
There is not one like it in the world. Rabineau’s is nothing side of my house. And stay! yester- day at five o’clock the president was so well pleased that he promised me the academic palms . . . for my son, who is chief auditor in a religious educational institution at Auteuil.’’
She looked at me a long time, searching me body and soul, and repeated:
"Oh! if you would! What a success!"
I offered a heap of objections, my lack of fine linen, of costumes, of jewels. The old woman reassured me.
"Oh! if that’s all," said she, "you need not worry, because in my house, you understand, natural beauty is the chief adornment."
"Yes, yes, I know, but still" ...
"I assure you that you need not worry," she insisted, with benevolence. "Listen, sign a con- tract with me for three months, and I will give you an outfit of the best, such as no soubrette of the Théatre-Frangais ever had. My word for it!"
I asked time to reflect.
"Well, all right! reflect," counseled this dealer in human flesh. "Let me give you my address, at any rate. When your heart speaks,—well, you
