He wondered whether it could be she had become aware of his persistent presence. He feared she had, and as often that she had not. He imagined sometimes that when he looked her face was quivering with a conquered desire to smile. That disconcerted him a shade. Sometimes he thought she looked suspiciously rosy for a girl unconscious of all the world. Sometimes he looked away, with the idea that if he turned suddenly he should find her stealing a glance at him. But he dared not look very quickly, lest the action should be too marked; and turning with discreet alacrity, he could never feel sure.
One day, at last, having settled in his mind that this tame conduct was unworthy of a man, refusing himself a second in which to think better of any matter, he crossed the street and charged the shop. A bell snapped sharply as he opened the door. It startled him to the point of gasping. He grew crimson, finding himself opposed in truth, as many a night before in dream, by Madame Finibald's sly and lowly smile, breathing the same faintly drug-perfumed air as the princess breathed, no glass screen between himself and the hair. He could have touched it, had he been so bold.
He stammered a request for soap—scented soap. He wished himself tens of ten miles away, or time out of mind dead, when—wonderful! The maiden in the window looked frankly over her shoulder. Was it that her eyes brimmed with friendly laughter, or did it seem so to him because his head had become incapable of a true notion? His heart, so to speak, found its feet; he made a muddle of every sentence he launched upon, but his words had a voice behind them. So much he contrived to convey: he was very hard to please in the matter of soap. He sniffed at a variety of proffered tablets, whose virtues Madame Finibald, in very truth like a witch with a philter to sell, assiduously set forth; each cake he examined seemed to hold in her estimation just a little higher place than the foregoing. At the end of ten minutes, without positively losing her good-humor, she declared that he had seen all in the shop, she was sorry and surprised they could not suit him, they might have a fresh stock in on the morrow. He was leaving in clumsy embarrassment, empty handed, with a promise to return, when the princess lightly jumped from the window-place, and, sweeping the hair off her face, said: "There is one more sort, ma'am. I saw it up there, high, when I dusted. Let me get it."
She fetched the steps, and in a moment had climbed and lifted down a box. She set it on the counter; she opened it herself and held towards him, with a direct glance, a packet with a red rose printed on the wrapper.
Madame Finibald, with an exclamation, snatched it from the girl's hand, and began, as if here had been a little grandchild recovered to her old age, to speak with tenderness of its merits. The girl stood near, twining and untwining a lock around her finger, while she unaffectedly looked at the customer. Her hair came below her knees; every moment she had to toss it back out of her face.
"Go back to your window, wicked child!" cried the old witch, suddenly, as if catching at a piece of gold as it was being taken out of her pocket. "Go back!"
"I am tired of sitting!" said the little princess, twisting her shoulders in her frock with the prettiest peevishness. "I have sat and sat and sat! I have finished my story. Let me go out and get a bun. You know you said I could when it was noon."
She caught at her hair, and, to the infinite wonder of one looking on, began twisting, twisting, twisting, coiling, coiling, coiling, driving in great skewers—while he filled his blissful pockets with rose-scented soap.
The bell snapped in fretful reprehension for her passing out. Less than a minute after, it exclaimed in annoyed surprise for his.
Now was he no longer made lonesome by every coquettish touch the more that the year put to her toilet. For the girl of the regal hair smiled to him, surreptitiously with her lips, but unguardedly with her eyes, when he came by her glass-case; while he dawdled in the window opposite, she communicated with him by signs no other eye could have perceived. Even before their acquaintance had become very old, she slipped out to walk in the garden, and they sat on the green seats and had long, foolish, youthful talks—delightful, foolish, youthful times.