“How sad the poor fellow looks!” she thought.  “I’m glad he’s asleep, after that unfortunate affair with the pipe.  When I remember how hard it is to get tobacco for him, for I am dreadfully afraid that some one will suspect me when I ask for it, I must own that Perine is an unlucky child.  But as for her not coming again, he doesn’t mean that, no, no—­he’s so kind hearted that he would be the last to keep her away; besides, I know very well that while he grumbles he feels an interest in hearing her do those wonderful sums.  Anything is better for him than seeing no one but stupid me from year’s end to year’s end—­my poor Jean!  Three years!  I declare it quite hurts me to go out and about, though to be sure I must.  But it seems so selfish.”

There is no knowing to what depths of accusing wickedness Madame Didier’s meditations would have led her, but that presently she heard a heavy creaking step upon the stairs; and flew to awake her husband and to hustle him into his refuge.  M. Plon’s visits were rare, and she discouraged them with all her might, yet when he arrived panting and puffing at 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.