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Updated: May 21, 2025
By this time the thing had come to be as exciting as the last chapter of a novel for Duronceret and Bixiou, even without the additional interest attached to all contests, however trifling, between England and France. Twenty minutes later the proprietor returned. There are six thousand francs to take." "How did you do it?" asked Duronceret, bowing before the king of invoices.
The proprietor took it to the light, gathered it up in his hands, smoothed it out, showed the gloss on it, played on it as Liszt plays on the pianoforte keys. "It is very fine; beautiful, sweet!" said the lady, as composedly as possible. Duronceret, Bixiou, and the shopmen exchanged amused glances. "The shawl is sold," they thought.
The shopman kept his countenance in spite of inward irritation, which communicated itself to Duronceret and Bixiou. The Englishwoman, cool as a cucumber, appeared to rejoice in her phlegmatic humor. "What price?" she asked, indicating a sky-blue shawl covered with a pattern of birds nestling in pagodas. "Seven thousand francs."
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