“A design in the Petit Courier Illustre, I need scarcely tell you,” pursued Mueller, with indescribable pomposity, “is in itself sufficient to make the fortune not only of an establishment, but of a neighborhood.  I am about to make Courbevoie the fashion.  The sun of Asnieres, of Montmorency, of Enghien has set—­the sun of Courbevoie is about to rise.  My sketches will produce an unheard-of effect.  All Paris will throng to your fetes next Sunday and Monday—­all Paris, with its inexhaustible appetite for bifteck aux pommes frites—­all Paris with its unquenchable thirst for absinthe and Bavarian beer!  Now, Monsieur Choucru, do you begin to understand me?”

“Mais, Monsieur, I—­I think....”

“You think you do, Monsieur Choucru?  Very good.  Then will you please to answer me one more question.  What is to prevent me from conferring fame, fortune, and other benefits too numerous to mention on your excellent neighbor at the corner of the Place—­Monsieur Coquille of the Restaurant Croix de Malte?”

Monsieur Choucru scratched his ear again, stared helplessly at his wife, and said nothing.  Madame looked grave.

“Are we to treat this matter on the footing of a business transaction, Monsieur!” she asked, somewhat sharply.  “Because, if so, let Monsieur at once name his price for me....”

“‘PRICE,’ Madame!” interrupted Mueller, with a start of horror.  “Gracious powers! this to me—­to Franz Mueller of the Petit Courier Illustre!  ’No, Madame—­you mistake me—­you wound me—­you touch the honor of the Fine Arts!  Madame, I am incapable of selling my patronage.”

Madame clasped her hands; raised her voice; rolled her black eyes; did everything but burst into tears.  She was shocked to have offended Monsieur!  She was profoundly desolated!  She implored a thousand pardons!  And then, like a true French-woman of business, she brought back the conversation to the one important point:—­since money was not in question, upon what consideration would Monsieur accord his preference to the Toison d’ Or instead of to the Croix de Malte?

Mueller bowed, laid his hand upon his heart, and said:—­

“I will do it, pour les beaux yeux de Madame.”

And then, in graceful recognition of the little man’s rights as owner of the eyes in question, he bowed to Monsieur Choucru.

Madame was inexpressibly charmed.  Monsieur smiled, fidgeted, and cast longing glances towards the door.

“I have eighty dinners on hand,” he began again, “and if M’sieur will excuse me....”

“One moment more, my dear Monsieur Choucru,” said Mueller, slipping his hand affectionately through the little man’s arm.  “For myself, as I have already told you, I can accept nothing—­but I am bound in honor not to neglect the interests of the journal I represent.  You will of course wish to express your sense of the compliment paid to your house by adding your name to the subscription list of the Petit Courier Illustre?”