The lace passed from hand to hand. The ladies were astonished. Mouret assured them that he sold these little trimmings at cost price. However, Madame Marty had closed the bag, as if to conceal certain things she must not show. But after the success obtained by the Valenciennes she was unable to resist the temptation of taking out a handkerchief.
"There was this handkerchief as well. Real Brussels, my dear. Oh! a bargain! Twenty francs!"
And after that the bag became inexhaustible. She blushed with pleasure, at each fresh article she took out. There was a Spanish blonde-lace cravat, thirty francs: she hadn't wanted it, but the shopman had sworn it was the last one in stock, and that in future the price would be raised. Next came a Chantilly veil: rather dear, fifty francs; if she didn't wear it she could make it do for her daughter.
"Really, lace is so pretty!" she repeated with her nervous laugh. "Once I'm inside I could buy everything."
"And this?" asked Madame de Boves, taking up and examining some guipure.
"That," replied she, "is for an insertion. There are twenty-six yards—a franc the yard. Just fancy!"
"But," asked Madame Bourdelais, in surprise, "What are you going to do with it?"
"I'm sure I don't know. But it was such a funny pattern!"
At that moment however, she chanced to raise her eyes and perceived her terrified husband in front of her. He had turned paler than ever, his whole person expressive of the patient, resigned anguish of a powerless man, witnessing the reckless expenditure of his dearly earned salary. Every fresh bit of lace to him meant disaster; bitter days of teaching, long journeys to pupils through the mud, the whole constant effort of his life resulting in secret misery, the hell of a necessitous household. And she, perceiving the increasing wildness of his look, wanted to catch up the veil, cravat and handkerchief and put them out of sight, moving her feverish hands about and repeating with forced laughter: "You'll get me a scolding from my husband. I assure you, my dear, I've been very reasonable; for there was a large lace flounce at five hundred francs, oh! a marvel!"
"Why didn't you buy it?" asked Madame Guibal, calmly. "Monsieur Marty is the most gallant of men."