The Frenchwoman arrived punctual to the appointed day--glib and
curt, smiling and flippant, tight of face and supple of figure.
Her name was Mademoiselle Virginie, and her family had inhumanly
deserted her. She was set to work the moment she was inside the
doors of the Grifoni establishment. A room was devoted to her own
private use; magnificent materials in velvet, silk, and satin,
with due accompaniment of muslins, laces, and ribbons were placed
at her disposal; she was told to spare no expense, and to
produce, in the shortest possible time, the finest and nearest
specimen dresses for exhibition in the show-room. Mademoiselle
Virginie undertook to do everything required of her, produced her
portfolios of patterns and her book of colored designs, and asked
for one assistant who could speak French enough to interpret her
orders to the Italian girls in the work-room.
"I have the very person you want," cried Demoiselle Grifoni. "A
work-woman we call Brigida here--the idlest slut in Pisa, but as
sharp as a needle--has been in France, and speaks the language
like a native. I'll send her to you directly."
Mademoiselle Virginie was not left long alone with her patterns
and silks. A tall woman, with bold black eyes, a reckless manner,
and a step as firm as a man's, stalked into the room with the
gait of a tragedy-queen crossing the stage. The instant her eyes
fell on the French forewoman, she stopped, threw up her hands in
astonishment, and exclaimed, "Finette!"
"Teresa!" cried the Frenchwoman, casting her scissors on the
table, and advancing a few steps.
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