500 Zouaves, and 1000 dozen cravats—­all at extraordinary low prices.  Poor Jacques draws public attention to the “incomparable cheapness” of his immense operations:  while Little St. Thomas declares that his assortment of goods is of “exceptional importance,” and that he is selling his goods at a cheapness hors ligne.  For a nation that has twitted the English with being a race of shop-keepers, our friends the Parisians who keep shops are not wanting in devotion to their own commercial interests.  Indeed, there is a strong commercial sense in thousands of Parisians who have no shutters to take down.  Take for instance the poetical M. Alphonse Karr, whose name has passed all over Europe as the charming author of A Journey round my Garden.  Nothing can be more engaging than the manner in which M. Karr leads his readers about with him among his flowers and the parasites of his garden.  He falls into raptures over the petals of the rose, and his eye brightens tenderly over the June fly.  One would think that this garden-traveller was a very ethereal personage, and that milk and honey and a few sweet roots would satisfy his simple wants, and that he had no more idea of trafficking in a market than a hard man of business has in spending hours watching a beetle upon a leaf.  But let not the reader continue to labour under this grievous mistake.

M. Karr is quite up to the market value of every bud that breaks within the charmed circle of his garden at Nice.

He cultivates the poetry for his books, but he does not neglect his ledger.  In the spring, when, according to Mr. Tennyson, “a fuller crimson comes upon the robin’s breast,” and “young men’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,” M. Alphonse Karr, poet and florist, opens his flower-shop.

Carrie had taken up the newspaper which had moved the enthusiasm of her elder sisters.  Her eyes fell on the following advertisement:—­

“By an arrangement agreed upon,
M. ALPHONSE KARR, of Nice,

sends direct, gratuitously, and post free, either a box containing Herbes aux Turguoises, or a magnificent bouquet of Parma Violets, to every person who, before the end of March, shall become a subscriber to the monthly review entitled Life in the Country.  A specimen number will be sent on receipt of fifteen sous in postage stamps.”

This is Alphonse Karr’s magnificent spring assortment—­his Grand Occasion.

“So you see, Mr. Cockayne,” said his wife, “this Mr. Karr, whose book about the garden—­twaddle, I call it—­you used to think so very fine and poetic, is just a market-gardener and nothing more.  He is positively an advertising tradesman.”

“Nothing more, mamma, I assure you,” said Sophonisba.  “I remember at school that one of the French young ladies, Mademoiselle de la Rosiere, told me that when her sister was married, the bride and all the bridesmaids had Alphonse Karr’s bouquets.  It seems that the mercenary creature advertises to sell ball or wedding bouquets, which he manages to send to Paris quite fresh in little boxes, for a pound apiece.”