Since morning Nana had been much worried. First of all it was the baker, who at nine o’clock had turned up, bill in hand. It was a wretched story. He had supplied her with bread to the amount of a hundred and thirty-three francs, and despite her royal housekeeping she could not pay it. In his irritation at being put off he had presented himself a score of times since the day he had refused further credit, and the servants were now espousing his cause. Francois kept saying that Madame would never pay him unless he made a fine scene; Charles talked of going upstairs, too, in order to get an old unpaid straw bill settled, while Victorine advised them to wait till some gentleman was with her, when they would get the money out of her by suddenly asking for it in the middle of conversation Neo skin lab.
“Why? The moment a work of art’s in question I don’t mind the sculptor that takes my likeness a blooming bit!”
Of course it must be understood that she was choosing the subject. But at this he interposed.
“Wait a moment; it’s six thousand francs extra.”
“It’s all the same to me, by Jove!” she cried, bursting into a laugh. “Hasn’t my little rough got the rhino?”
Nowadays among her intimates she always spoke thus of Count Muffat, and the gentlemen had ceased to inquire after him otherwise Neo skin lab.
“Did you see your little rough last night?” they used to say.
“Dear me, I expected to find the little rough here!”
It was a simple familiarity enough, which, nevertheless, she did not as yet venture on in his presence.
Labordette began rolling up the designs as he gave the final explanations. , were undertaking to deliver the bed in two months’ time, toward the twenty-fifth of December, and next week a sculptor would come to make a model for the Night. As she accompanied him to the door Nana remembered the baker and briskly inquired Neo skin lab:
