to leave her would do her harm,
and cause her unnecessary pain. It seems to me that the length of our
acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my
patronage has become her property.

She has put the basket upon my table, and as I want her husband, who is a
joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone downstairs again
immediately to send him to me.

At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her voice:
but, now that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not as jovial as
usual. Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about anything?

Poor woman! All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, that
she might think she had received her full share already. Were I to live a
hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances which made her
known to me, and which obtained for her my respect.

It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg. I had noticed
her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and, being attracted by its
forsaken appearance, I made my little purchases in it. I have always
instinctively preferred the poor shops; there is less choice in them, but
it seems to me that my purchase is a sign of sympathy with a brother in
poverty. These little dealings are almost always an anchor of hope to
those whose very existence is in peril--the only means by which some
orphan gains a livelihood. There the aim of the tradesman is not to
enrich himself, but to live! The purchase you make of him is more than an
exchange--it is a good action.

Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost that
fresh bloom of youth which suffering causes to wither so soon among the
poor. Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off working to become,
according to the picturesque expression of the workshops, a worshipper of
Saint Monday. The wages of the week, which was always reduced to two or
three working days, were completely dedicated by him to the worship of
this god of the Barriers,--[The cheap wine shops are outside the
Barriers, to avoid the octroi, or municipal excise.]--and Genevieve was
obliged herself to provide for all the wants of the household.

One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I heard
a sound of quarrelling in the back shop. There were the voices of several
women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, broken by sobs. On
looking farther in, I perceived the fruit-woman holding a child in h