s existed in
Paris that did not rest on the vacillating foundation of borrowed
money. She possessed, laid away in her drawers, the secrets of
departed grandmothers, living children, deceased husbands, dead
granddaughters,--memories set in gold and diamonds. She learned
appalling stories by making her clients talk of one another; tearing
their secrets from them in moments of passion, of quarrels, of anger,
and during those cooler negotiations which need a loan to settle
difficulties.

"Why were you ever induced to take up such a business?" asked Gazonal.

"For my son's sake," she said naively.

Such women almost invariably justify their trade by alleging noble
motives. Madame Nourrisson posed as having lost several opportunities
for marriage, also three daughters who had gone to the bad, and all her
illusions. She showed the pawn-tickets of the Mont-de-Piete to prove the
risks her business ran; declared that she did not know how to meet the
"end of the month"; she was robbed, she said,--_robbed_.

The two artists looked at each other on hearing that expression, which
seemed exaggerated.

"Look here, my sons, I'll show you how we are _done_. It is not about
myself, but about my opposite neighbour, Madame Mahuchet, a ladies'
shoemaker. I had loaned money to a countess, a woman who has too many
passions for her means,--lives in a fine apartment filled with splendid
furniture, and makes, as we say, a devil of a show with her high and
mighty airs. She owed three hundred francs to her shoemaker, and was
giving a dinner no later than yesterday. The shoemaker, who heard of the
dinner from the cook, came to see me; we got excited, and she wanted to
make a row; but I said: 'My dear Madame Mahuchet, what good will that
do? you'll only get yourself hated. It is much better to obtain some
security; and you save your bile.' She wouldn't listen, but go she
would, and asked me to support her; so I went. 'Madame is not at
home.'--'Up to that! we'll wait,' said Madame Mahuchet, 'if we have to
stay all night,'--and down we camped in the antechamber. Presently the
doors began to open and shut, and feet and voices came along. I felt
badly. The guests were arriving for dinner. You can see the appearance
it had. The countess sent her maid to coax Madame Mahuchet: 'Pay you
to-morrow!' in short, all the snares! Nothing took. The countess,
dressed to the nines, went to the dining-room. Mahuchet heard her
and opened the door. Gracious! when