Once you are there, he stations
himself close behind you, reenforcing the combined importunities
of the shopkeeper and his assembled staff with gentle suggestions.
The depths of self-abasement to which a shopkeeper in Europe will
descend in an effort to sell his goods surpasses the power of
description. The London tradesman goes pretty far in this direction.
Often he goes as far as the sidewalk, clinging to the hem of your
garment and begging you to return for one more look. But the
Continentals are still worse.
A Parisian shopkeeper would sell you the bones of his revered
grandmother if you wanted them and he had them in stock; and he
would have them in stock too, because, as I have stated once before,
a true Parisian never throws away anything he can save. I heard
of just one single instance where a customer desirous of having
an article and willing to pay the price failed to get it; and that,
I would say, stands without a parallel in the annals of commerce
and barter.
An American lady visiting her daughter, an art student in the Latin
Quartier, was walking alone when she saw in a shop window a lace
blouse she fancied. She went inside and by signs, since she knew
no French, indicated that she wished to look at that blouse. The
woman in charge shook her head, declining even to take the garment
out of the window.
