—And how does it beat, Monsieur? said she.—With all the benignity, said I, looking quietly in her eyes, that I expected—She was going to say something civil in return—but the lad came into the shop with the gloves—Apropos, said I, I want a couple of pair myself.

The Gloves

Paris

The beautiful Grisset rose up when I said this, and going behind the counter, reach’d down a parcel and untied it: I advanced to the side over against her: they were all too large. The beautiful Grisset measured them one by one across my hand—It would not alter the dimensions—She begg’d I would try a single pair, which seemed to be the least—She held it open—my hand slipp’d into it at once—It will not do, said I, shaking my head a little—No, said she, doing the same thing.

There are certain combined looks of simple subtlety—where whim and sense and seriousness and nonsense are so blended, that all the languages of Babel set loose together could not express them—they are communicated and caught so instantaneously, that you can scarce say which party is the infecter. I leave it to your men of words to swell pages about it—it is enough in the present to say again, the gloves would not do; so folding our hands within our arms, we both loll’d upon the counter—it was narrow; and there was just room for the parcel to lay between us.—

The beautiful Grisset look’d sometimes at the gloves, then side-ways to the window, then at the gloves—and then at me: I was not disposed to break silence—I followed her example: so I look’d at the gloves, then to the window, then at the gloves, and then at her—and so on alternately.

I found I lost considerably in every attack—she had a quick black eye, and shot through two such long and silken eye lashes with such penetration, that she look’d into my very heart and reins—it may seem strange, but I could actually feel she did—

—It is no matter, said I, taking up a couple of the pairs next me, and putting them into my pocket.

I was sensible the beautiful Grisset had not ask’d above a single livre above the price—I wish’d she had ask’d a livre more, and was puzzling my brains how to bring the matter about—Do you think, my dear Sir, said she, mistaking my embarrassment, that I could ask a sous too much of a stranger—and of a stranger whose politeness, more than his want of gloves, has done me the honour to lay himself at my mercy?—M’en croyez capable?—Faith! not I, said I; and if you were, you are welcome—So counting the money into her hand, and with a lower bow than one generally makes to a shopkeeper’s wife, I went out; and her lad with his parcel followed me.