I dropped my hands, and tried to move her to respect my unprotected situation.  But no, she dangled the beads in the sun before my face, exclaiming, “Ah, monsieur cannot resist them!” She hung them on my coat button, folded her hand resignedly, and said:  “Gone,—­and for thirty francs, the lovely things—­it is incredible!—­but the good God will sanctify the sacrifice to me.”

I removed them gently, returned them, and walked away, shaking my head and smiling a smile of silly embarrassment while the passers-by halted to observe.  The woman leaned out of her door, shook the beads, and screamed after me: 

“Monsieur shall have them for twenty-eight!”

I shook my head.

“Twenty-seven!  It is a cruel loss, it is ruin —­but take them, only take them.”

I still retreated, still wagging my head.

“Mon dieu, they shall even go for twenty-six!  There, I have said it.  Come!”

I wagged another negative.  A nurse and a little English girl had been near me, and were following me, now.  The shopwoman ran to the nurse, thrust the beads into her hands, and said: 

“Monsieur shall have them for twenty-five!  Take them to the hotel—­he shall send me the money tomorrow —­next day—­when he likes.”  Then to the child:  “When thy father sends me the money, come thou also, my angel, and thou shall have something oh so pretty!”

I was thus providentially saved.  The nurse refused the beads squarely and firmly, and that ended the matter.

The “sights” of Geneva are not numerous.  I made one attempt to hunt up the houses once inhabited by those two disagreeable people, Rousseau and Calvin, but I had no success.  Then I concluded to go home.  I found it was easier to propose to do that than to do it; for that town is a bewildering place.  I got lost in a tangle of narrow and crooked streets, and stayed lost for an hour or two.  Finally I found a street which looked somewhat familiar, and said to myself, “Now I am at home, I judge.”  But I was wrong; this was “Hell street.”  Presently I found another place which had a familiar look, and said to myself, “Now I am at home, sure.”  It was another error.  This was “Purgatory street.”  After a little I said, “Now I’ve got the right place, anyway ... no, this is ‘paradise street’; I’m further from home than I was in the beginning.”  Those were queer names—­Calvin was the author of them, likely.  “Hell” and “Purgatory” fitted those two streets like a glove, but the “Paradise” appeared to be sarcastic.

I came out on the lake-front, at last, and then I knew where I was.  I was walking along before the glittering jewelry shops when I saw a curious performance.  A lady passed by, and a trim dandy lounged across the walk in such an apparently carefully timed way as to bring himself exactly in front of her when she got to him; he made no offer to step out of the way; he did not apologize; he did not even