the door, she was standing by the stove working, with a
little coquettish air of greeting about her.

"You don't mean to say that you have brought the journal yourself, M.
Plon! Now that is kind of you, but it is disarranging yourself too much
to climb up those steep stairs, when I could have fetched it with
pleasure."

"Ugh, ugh, they are steep, there's no denying it," said Plon, sinking
into the rickety chair. "But what would you have? Up here on the sixth,
you can't expect all the luxuries of the first or second."

"Heavens, no!"

"You should cultivate a contented frame of mind. Madame Didier, and
beware of grumbling."

"Was I grumbling?"

"You were complaining--complaining of the stairs, and it is a pernicious
habit. Don't encourage it."

"But, indeed--" Marie was beginning with a smile, when he interrupted
her with a majestic wave of his hand.

"_Halte la_! Now you are contradicting, and that is another bad habit,
particularly for a woman. But nobody knows when they are well off in
these days. I often say to my friends: 'There is Madame Didier, she
lives in that nice airy attic of ours; she has no one to think of but
herself, no cares, no responsibilities; she ought to be as happy as a
bird.' Look at me, I entreat you; what a contrast! At everybody's beck
and call, cooped up in a draughty little den, making shoes with a
thousand interruptions. I ask you what sort of a life is that for a man
of my stamp? If you were to try it for a week, you'd find out whether
you were not a lucky woman! But, there, as I said before, nobody ever
knows when they are well off--not even widows. I say all this because I
take a real interest in you."

"I know you do, M. Plon, if only for the sake of my poor husband," said
Marie demurely. To say the truth she was often in a state of
uncomfortable doubt as to whether M. Plon's interest might not be going
to take a warmer form, in which case it might be more difficult than
ever for Jean to forget that he was no longer in the land of the living.

"But I must say I don't think you are the best of managers," said M.
Plon with a magisterial sweep of his hand which took in all the poor
surroundings. "With your earnings you might do better than you do,
Madame Didier. One mouth to feed, one person to dress--"

"There is Perine," faltered poor Marie.

"Yes, there is Perine, and it is true those imbeciles have appetites
like wolves. Still--well, well, you must not suppose that I am b