ow or other we can always rub
along, and this poor child is in worse plight than we are."

"Worse? Nonsense. No one can be worse off than I am. Denounced,
executed, for I assure you I felt that bullet go through my brain, saved
just by the hair of my head--"

"Such a mercy!" breathed the wife.

"A mercy, yes--but you who can go and come and amuse yourself, never
think what this life must be to me, cooped up like a rat in his hole.
There are times when I believe I should do better to give myself up."

"For the sake of Heaven, Jean--!"

"At any rate," said Jean, descending from his heights, "I will not have
that _imbecile_ here. You understand?"

Marie looked at him indulgently. "Yes, my friend, I understand."

"I'll lay a wager you never got that journal from old Plon-Plon?"

"He had not finished with it."

"Of course not. Then I shall go to sleep, for there is nothing else for
me to do."

He flung a handkerchief over his eyes as he spoke, put his feet on
Perine's stool, and his elbow on the table. Marie moved quietly about,
set the saucepan again on the stove, and taking some needlework from a
box, sat down near her husband, stitching rapidly. Every now and then
she glanced at him, and her mind was tenderly busy over his concerns all
the while, so that tears would have stood in her eyes if they had not
had other work to do.

"How sad the poor fellow looks!" she thought. "I'm glad he's asleep,
after that unfortunate affair with the pipe. When I remember how hard it
is to get tobacco for him, for I am dreadfully afraid that some one will
suspect me when I ask for it, I must own that Perine is an unlucky
child. But as for her not coming again, he doesn't mean that, no,
no--he's so kind hearted that he would be the last to keep her away;
besides, I know very well that while he grumbles he feels an interest in
hearing her do those wonderful sums. Anything is better for him than
seeing no one but stupid me from year's end to year's end--my poor Jean!
Three years! I declare it quite hurts me to go out and about, though to
be sure I must. But it seems so selfish."

There is no knowing to what depths of accusing wickedness Madame
Didier's meditations would have led her, but that presently she heard a
heavy creaking step upon the stairs; and flew to awake her husband and
to hustle him into his refuge. M. Plon's visits were rare, and she
discouraged them with all her might, yet when he arrived panting and
puffing at