Their booths stood on
opposite sides of the square, all the fun of the fair between them. In
the west was Mile. Jeanne; in the east the Princess Sexiena. Jeanne
was French, Sexiena came from the Fatherland. Both, though rivals,
used the same poster: a picture of a lady, enormous, decolletee,
highly-coloured, stepping into a fiacre, to the cocher's intense
alarm. Before one inspected the rival giantesses this community of
advertisement had seemed to be a mistake; after, its absurdity was only
too apparent, for although the Princess was colossal, Mile. Jeanae
was more so. Mile. Jeanne should therefore have employed an artist
to make an independent allurement.
Both also displayed outside the booths a pair of corsets, but here,
I fancy, the advantage was with Mlle. Jeanne, although such were the
distractions of the square that it was difficult to keep relative
sizes in mind as one crossed it.
We visited the Princess first and found her large enough. She gasped on
a dais--it was the hottest week of the year. She was happy, she said,
except in such warmth. She was not married: Princes had sighed for
her in vain. She rode a bicycle, she assured us, and enjoyment in the
incredulity of her hearers was evidently one of her pleasures.
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