In a minute, on a pretext, he excused himself and dived into one of the crooked ways that thread through all parts of Venice and make it possible for one who knows their windings to reach any part of the city without using the canals.  Two of us secretly followed him.  Beyond the first turning he dived into a shoe shop.  Emerging after a while he hurried back and led the lady to that same shop, and stood by, smiling softly, while she was fitted with gaiters.  Until now evidently gaiters had not been on his list, but he had taken steps to remedy this; and, though his commission on a pair of sixty-cent gaiters could not have been very large yet, as some philosopher has so truly said, every little bit added to what you have makes just a modicum more.  Indeed, the guide never overlooks the smallest bet.  His whole mentality is focused on getting you inside a shop.  Once you are there, he stations himself close behind you, reenforcing the combined importunities of the shopkeeper and his assembled staff with gentle suggestions.  The depths of self-abasement to which a shopkeeper in Europe will descend in an effort to sell his goods surpasses the power of description.  The London tradesman goes pretty far in this direction.  Often he goes as far as the sidewalk, clinging to the hem of your garment and begging you to return for one more look.  But the Continentals are still worse.

A Parisian shopkeeper would sell you the bones of his revered grandmother if you wanted them and he had them in stock; and he would have them in stock too, because, as I have stated once before, a true Parisian never throws away anything he can save.  I heard of just one single instance where a customer desirous of having an article and willing to pay the price failed to get it; and that, I would say, stands without a parallel in the annals of commerce and barter.

An American lady visiting her daughter, an art student in the Latin Quartier, was walking alone when she saw in a shop window a lace blouse she fancied.  She went inside and by signs, since she knew no French, indicated that she wished to look at that blouse.  The woman in charge shook her head, declining even to take the garment out of the window.  Convinced now, womanlike, that this particular blouse was the blouse she desired above all other blouses the American woman opened her purse and indicated that she was prepared to buy at the shopwoman’s own valuation, without the privilege of examination.  The shopwoman showed deep pain at having to refuse the proposition, but refuse it she did; and the would-be buyer went home angry and perplexed and told her daughter what had happened.

“It certainly is strange,” the daughter said.  “I thought everything in Paris, except possibly Napoleon’s tomb, was for sale.  This thing will repay investigation.  Wait until I pin my hat on.  Does my nose need powdering?”

Her mother led her back to the shop of the blouse and then the puzzle was revealed.  For it was the shop of a dry cleanser and the blouse belonged to some patron and was being displayed as a sample of the work done inside; but undoubtedly such a thing never before happened in Paris and probably never will happen again.