Mme. Derline entered a sumptuous parlor; it was very sumptuous, too sumptuous.  Twenty great customers were there—­society women and actresses, all agitated, anxious, feverish—­looking at the beautiful tall saleswomen come and go before them, wearing the last creations of the master of the house.  The great artist had a diplomatic bearing:  buttoned-up black frock-coat, long cravat with pin (a present from a royal highness who paid her bills slowly), and a many-colored rosette in his button-hole (the gift of a small reigning prince who paid slower yet the bills of an opera-dancer).  He came and went—­precise, calm, and cool—­in the midst of the solicitations and supplications of his customers.  “M.  Arthur!  M. Arthur!” One heard nothing but that phrase.  He was M. Arthur.  He went from one to the other—­respectful, without too much humility, to the duchesses, and easy, without too much familiarity, to the actresses.  There was an extraordinary liveliness, and a confusion of marvellous velvets, satins, and embroidered, brocaded, and gold or silver threaded stuffs, all thrown here and there, as though by accident—­but what science in that accident—­on arm-chairs, tables, and divans.

In the first place Mme. Derline ran against a shop-girl who was bearing with outstretched arms a white dress, and was almost hidden beneath a light mountain of muslins and laces.  The only thing visible was the shop-girl’s mussed black hair and sly suburban expression.  Mme. Derline backed away, wishing to place herself against the, wall; but a tryer-on was there, a large energetic brunette, who spoke authoritatively in a high staccato.  “At once,” she was saying—­“bring me at once the princess’s dress!”

Frightened and dazed, Mme. Derline stood in a corner and watched an opportunity to seize a saleswoman on the fly.  She even thought of giving up the game.  Never, certainly, should she dare to address directly that terrible M. Arthur, who had just given her a rapid glance in which she believed to have read, “Who is she?  She isn’t properly dressed!  She doesn’t go to a fashionable dress-maker!” At last Mme. Derline succeeded in getting hold of a disengaged saleswoman, and there was the same slightly disdainful glance—­a glance which was accompanied by the phrase: 

“Madame is not a regular customer of the house?”

“No, I am not a customer—­”

“And you wish?”

“A dress, a ball-dress—­and I want the dress for next Thursday evening—­”

“Thursday next!”

“Yes, Thursday next.”

“Oh! madame, it is not to be thought of.  Even for a customer of the house it would be impossible.”

“But I wished it so much—­”

“Go and see M. Arthur.  He alone can—­”

“And where is M. Arthur?”

“In his office.  He has just gone into his office.  Over there, madame, opposite.”