g wide his shallow-set blue eyes, had whispered into his
ear with emphasis these words rich in promises:

"The Nabob is in the concern."

Even after that, M. Joyeuse had had the courage to say No. Was it not
better to die of hunger than to enter a fraudulent house of which
he might perhaps one day be summoned to report upon the books in the
courts?

So he continued to wander; but, discouraged, he no longer sought employ.
As it was necessary that he should absent himself from home, he used
to linger over the stalls on the quays, lean for hours on the parapets,
watch the water flow and the unladening of the vessels. He became one of
those idlers whom one sees in the first rank whenever a crowd collects
in the street, taking shelter from the rain under the porches, warming
himself at the stoves where, in the open air, the tar of the asphalters
reeks, sinking on a bench of some boulevard when his legs could no
longer carry him.

To do nothing! What a fine way of making life seem longer!

On certain days, however, when M. Joyeuse was too weary or the sky
too unkind, he would wait at the end of the street until his daughters
should have closed their window again and, returning to the house,
keeping close to the walls, would mount the staircase very quickly, pass
before his own door holding his breath, and take refuge in the apartment
of the photographer Andre Maranne, who, aware of his ill-fortune, always
gave him that kindly welcome which the poor have for each other. Clients
are rare so near the outskirts of the town. He used to remain long hours
in the studio, talking in a very low voice, reading at his friend's
side, listening to the rain on the window-panes or the wind that blew
as it does on the open sea, shaking the old doors and the window-sashes
below in the wood-sheds. Beneath him he could hear sounds well known
and full of charm, songs that escaped in the satisfaction of work
accomplished, assembled laughter, the pianoforte lesson being given by
Bonne Maman, the tic-tac of the metronome, all the delicious household
stir that pleased his heart. He lived with his darlings, who certainly
never could have guessed that they had him so near them.

Once, when Maranne was out, M. Joyeuse keeping faithful watch over the
studio and its new apparatus, heard two little strokes given on the
ceiling of the apartment below, two separate, very distinct strokes,
then a cautious pattering of fingers, like the scamper of mice.