“Yes; you shall see the usuress of rats, marcheuses and great ladies,—a woman who possesses more terrible secrets than there are gowns hanging in her window,” said Bixiou.
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.”