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T last, here are the sabots for Madame!"

It was quite an event. The lady's maid had been on the look-out for their arrival for an hour past; even the cook had got interested in them; Madame could scarcely contain her impatience, so when her maid's cry of pleasure reached her, she rushed forward. What loves of sabots! Ferry, the maker of pretty shoes for pretty feet, had surpassed himself. They were good enough mutations of wooden shoes to be mistaken for the real articles, only they were coquettish and light. Tan kid, well-stretched over a dainty shape, turned up at the tips, and delicately arched for the instep, fit for the dainty feet of a Parisian élégante.

All the pretty "miller's wife" costume spread out on the bed would have been a total failure without the sabots, and Madame Karl du Boys was determined to have the prettiest costume at the ball. This peasant ball, given by Madame Demol, the fashionable portrait painter—a charming woman, beloved by everybody—was to be the event of the season in the world of fashion. It had been talked of for a month past. The studio of the fair artist was to be decorated in a manner to suggest country life: the supper tables groaning under a load of viands whose forms at least would have rendered them appetising to a company of peasants. That is to say, the ices were to be shaped like carrots and turnips, and the most exquisite dainties were to be disguised under rustic exteriors. The conversation of the guests was likewise to be borrowed from rural districts. All the refined circle, tired of the usual drawing-room correctness, promised itself enjoyment in this counterfeit simplicity, just as Marie Antoinette took pleasure in milking her cows.

"If Madame would try on all the costume? We cannot tell—perhaps there may be something amiss here or there!"