"By the way, how much do I owe for these?"
"I don't know, monsieur. Madame Landernoy's never made any before; so she says: 'Let the gentleman pay what he thinks they're worth, and I'll be satisfied.'"
"Four waistcoats, at twelve francs each, makes forty-eight francs."
"Oh! monsieur is joking! Twelve francs for making a waistcoat! You can't mean that, monsieur! At that rate, all women would be waistcoat makers; they can't get any such pay as that."
"You weary me with your scruples, Madame Potrelle; my tailor charges me eighteen or twenty francs, sometimes more, for a waistcoat. With what I paid for the material, these won't cost any more than that, and I certainly don't propose to get them any cheaper."
"Sapristi! monsieur, tailors must do mighty well, then! All right, you can pay that price, since that suits you; but, I tell you, I won't take the money till they fit."
Thereupon the concierge walked toward the door.
"Where are you going, Madame Potrelle?"
"I'm going to tell our young woman she must fix over your waistcoats, monsieur; that they're a gold mine, but that she's got to take 'em in a little. In a word, I'm going to bring Madame Landernoy back with me. What the devil! with me here, she won't be afraid of you eating her, I fancy! To be on your guard is all right; but there's no need of making a fool of yourself! I'll be back, monsieur."
"But your door, Madame Potrelle?"