"And how much do you want for it?" she asked presently, in a reluctant
tone.

"Fifteen francs," replied La Normande.

At this the servant hastily laid the brill on the stall again, and
seemed anxious to hurry away, but the other detained her. "Wait a
moment," said she. "What do you offer?"

"No, no, I can't take it. It is much too dear."

"Come, now, make me an offer."

"Well, will you take eight francs?"

Old Madame Mehudin, who was there, suddenly seemed to wake up, and
broke out into a contemptuous laugh. Did people think that she and her
daughter stole the fish they sold? "Eight francs for a brill that size!"
she exclaimed. "You'll be wanting one for nothing next, to use as a
cooling plaster!"

Meantime La Normande turned her head away, as though greatly offended.
However, the servant came back twice and offered nine francs; and
finally she increased her bid to ten.

"All right, come on, give me your money!" cried the fish-girl, seeing
that the woman was now really going away.

The servant took her stand in front of the stall and entered into a
friendly gossip with old Madame Mehudin. Madame Taboureau, she said, was
so exacting! She had got some people coming to dinner that evening, some
cousins from Blois a notary and his wife. Madame Taboureau's family,
she added, was a very respectable one, and she herself, although only a
baker, had received an excellent education.

"You'll clean it nicely for me, won't you?" added the woman, pausing in
her chatter.

With a jerk of her finger La Normande had removed the fish's entrails
and tossed them into a pail. Then she slipped a corner of her apron
under its gills to wipe away a few grains of sand. "There, my dear," she
said, putting the fish into the servant's basket, "you'll come back to
thank me."

Certainly the servant did come back a quarter of an hour afterwards,
but it was with a flushed, red face. She had been crying, and her little
body was trembling all over with anger. Tossing the brill on to the
marble slab, she pointed to a broad gash in its belly that reached the
bone. Then a flood of broken words burst from her throat, which was
still contracted by sobbing: "Madame Taboureau won't have it. She says
she couldn't put it on her table. She told me, too, that I was an idiot,
and let myself be cheated by anyone. You can see for yourself that the
fish is spoilt. I never thought of turning it round; I quite trusted
you. Give me my ten francs back."