an
habits, there appeared at the breakfast hour, in the midst of this
household disorganized by poverty and illness, a parasite, a seedy
looking little bald man, cranky and peevish, of whom they always spoke
as "the man who has read Proudhon." It was thus that Heurtebise, who
probably had never known his name, introduced him to everybody. When he
was asked "Who is that?" he unhesitatingly replied, "Oh! a very clever
fellow, who has thoroughly studied Proudhon." His knowledge was
certainly not very apparent, for this deep thinker rarely made himself
heard except to complain at table of an ill-cooked roast or a spoilt
sauce. On this occasion, the man who had read Proudhon declared that the
breakfast was detestable, which however did not prevent his devouring
the larger half of it himself.

How long and lugubrious this meal by the bedside of my sick friend
appeared to me! The wife gossiped as usual, with a tap now and then to
the child, a bone to the dogs, and a smile to the philosopher. Not once
did Heurtebise turn towards us, and yet he was not asleep. I hardly know
whether he thought. Dear, valiant fellow! In those paltry and ceaseless
struggles, the mainspring of his strong nature had broken, and he was
already beginning to die. The silent death agony, which however was
rather an abandonment of life, lasted several months; and then Madame
Heurtebise found herself a widow. Then, as no tears had dimmed her clear
eyes, as she always bestowed the same care on her glossy locks, and as
Aubertot and Fajon were still available, she married Aubertot and Fajon.
Perhaps it was Aubertot, perhaps it was Fajon, perhaps even both of
them. In any case, she was able to resume the life she was fitted for,
and the voluble gossip and eternal smile of the shopwoman.

[Illustration: p038-049]

[Illustration: p041-052]

THE CREDO OF LOVE.

To be the wife of a poet! that had been the dream of her life! but
ruthless fate, instead of the romantic and fevered existence she sighed
for, had doomed her to a peaceful, humdrum happiness, and married her to
a rich man at Auteuil, gentle and amiable, perhaps indeed a trifle
old for her, possessed of but one passion,--perfectly inoffensive and
unexciting--that of horticulture. This excellent man spent his days
pruning, scissors in hand, tending and trimming a magnificent collection
of rose trees, heating a greenhouse, watering flower beds; and really it
must be admitted that, for a poor litt