astonishing that he does not come home," continued
the young wife, excusing to Zilah the absence of her Paul. "He often
breakfasts, however, in the city, at Brebant's. It seems that it is
necessary for him to do so. You see, at the restaurant he talks and
hears news. He couldn't learn all that he knows here very well, could
he? I don't know much of things that must be put in a newspaper."

And she smiled a little sad smile, making even of her humility a
pedestal for the husband so deeply loved and admired.

Zilah was beginning to feel ill at ease. He had come with anger,
expecting to encounter the little fop whom he had seen, and he found
this humble and devoted woman, who spoke of her Paul as if she were
speaking of her religion, and who, knowing nothing of the life of her
husband, only loving him, sacrificed herself to him in this almost
cruel poverty (a strange contrast to the life of luxury Jacquemin led
elsewhere), with the holy trust of her unselfish love.

"Do you never accompany your husband anywhere?" asked Andras.

"I? Oh, never!" she replied, with a sort of fright. "He does not wish
it--and he is right. You see, Monsieur, when he married me, five
years ago, he was not what he is now; he was a railway clerk. I was a
working-girl; yes, I was a seamstress. Then it was all right; we used to
walk together, and we went to the theatre; he did not know any one. It
is different now. You see, if the Baroness Dinati should see me on his
arm, she would not bow to him, perhaps."

"You are mistaken, Madame," said the Hungarian, gently. "You are the one
who should be bowed to first."

She did not understand, but she felt that a compliment was intended, and
she blushed very red, not daring to say any more, and wondering if she
had not chatted too much, as Jacquemin reproached her with doing almost
every day.

"Does Monsieur Jacquemin go often to the theatre?" asked Andras, after a
moment's pause.

"Yes; he is obliged to do so."

"And you?"

"Sometimes. Not to the first nights, of course. One has to dress
handsomely for them. But Paul gives me tickets, oh, as many as I want!
When the plays are no longer drawing money, I go with the neighbors. But
I prefer to stay at home and see to my babies; when I am sitting in the
theatre, and they are left in charge of the concierge, I think,
Suppose anything should happen to them! And that idea takes away all my
pleasure. Still, if Paul stayed here--but he can not; he has hi