“Dame, now! if it were only ten francs cheaper,” says a voice that strikes my ear with a sudden sense of familiarity.  Turning, I discover that the voice belongs to a young woman close at my elbow, and that the remark is addressed to a good-looking workman upon whose arm she is leaning.

“What, Josephine!” I exclaim.

“Comment!  Monsieur Basil!”

And I find myself kissed on both cheeks before I even guess what is going to happen to me.

“Have I not also the honor of being remembered by Mademoiselle?” says Mueller, taking off his hat with all the politeness possible; whereupon Josephine, in an ecstasy of recognition, embraces him likewise.

“Mais, quel bonheur!” cries she.  “And to meet in the Temple, above all places!  Emile, you heard me speak of Monsieur Basil—­the gentleman who gave me that lovely shawl that I wore last Sunday to the Chateau des Fleurs—­eh bien! this is he—­and here is Monsieur Mueller, his friend.  Gentlemen, this is Emile, my fiance.  We are to be married next Friday week, and we are buying our furniture.”

The good-looking workman pulled off his cap and made his bow, and we proffered the customary congratulations.

“We have bought such sweet, pretty things,” continued she, rattling on with all her old volubility, “and we have hired the dearest little appartement on the fourth story, in a street near the Jardin des Plantes.  See—­this looking-glass is ours; we have just bought it.  And those maple chairs, and that chest of drawers with the marble top.  It isn’t real marble, you know; but it’s ever so much better than real:—­not nearly so heavy, and so beautifully carved that it’s quite a work of art.  Then we have bought a carpet—­the sweetest carpet!  Is it not, Emile?”

Emile smiled, and confessed that the carpet was “fort bien.”

“And the time-piece, Madame?” suggested the furniture-dealer, at whose door we were standing.  “Madame should really not refuse herself the time-piece.”

Josephine shook her head.

“It is too dear,” said she.

“Pardon, madame.  I am giving it away,—­absolutely giving it away at the price!”

Josephine looked at it wistfully, and weighed her little purse.  It was a very little purse, and very light.

“It is so pretty!” said she.

The clock was of ormolu upon a painted stand, that was surmounted by a stout little gilt Cupid in a triumphal chariot, drawn by a pair of hard-working doves.

“What is the price of it?” I asked.

“Thirty-five francs, m’sieur,” replied the dealer, briskly.

“Say twenty-five,” urged Josephine.

The dealer shook his head.

“What if we did without the looking-glass?” whispered Josephine to her fiance.  “After all, you know, one can live without a looking-glass; but how shall I have your dinners ready, if I don’t know what o’clock it is?”