Of a sudden, their ears were caught by the cry:—
‘Galants pour les dames! Faveurs pour les galants! Rubans d’écarlate, de cramoisie, et de Cé-la-don!’
It came from a little man of Oriental appearance, sitting at a stall that contained nothing but knots of ribbon of every colour, known as galants.
When he caught sight of Madeleine, he waved before her one of pale green.
‘A céladon galant for the young lady—a figure of the perfect lover,’ he called out. ‘Mademoiselle cannot choose but buy it!’ Céladon, the perfect lover, in the famous romance called Astrée, had given his name to a certain shade of green.
Madeleine, thinking the words of good omen, pinched her mother’s arm and said she must have it. After a good deal of bargaining, they got it for more than Madame Troqueville had intended spending on a pair of shoes, and with a wry little smile, she said:—
‘Enough of these childish toys! Let us now to more serious business,’ and once more began to push her way through the hateful, seething crowd.
Suddenly, Madeleine again pinched her mother’s arm, and bade her stop. They were passing the stall of a mercer—a little man with black, beady eyes, leering at them roguishly from among his delicate merchandise.
‘Here is most rare Italian lace,’ said Madeleine, with a catch in her voice.
‘Ay, here, for example, is a piece of point de Gênes of most exquisite design,’ broke in the mercer’s wife—an elegant lady, with a beautifully dressed head of hair, ‘I sold just such a piece, a week come Thursday, to the Duchesse de Liancourt.’