M. Niepce in particular, though he sold goods to her at a special discount, suffered indignities.  A few days later that benign and fatherly man put himself lamentably in the wrong by attempting to introduce into his room a charming young creature who knew how to be sympathetic.  Sophia, by an accident unfortunate for the grocer, caught them in the corridor.  She was beside herself, but the only outward symptoms were a white face and a cold steely voice that grated like a rasp on the susceptibilities of the adherents of Aphrodite.  At this period Sophia had certainly developed into a termagant—­without knowing it!

She would often insist now on talking about the siege, and hearing everything that the men could tell her.  Her comments, made without the least regard for the justifiable delicacy of their feelings as Frenchmen, sometimes led to heated exchanges.  When all Montmartre and the Quartier Breda was impassioned by the appearance from outside of the Thirty-second battalion, she took the side of the populace, and would not credit the solemn statement of the journalists, proved by documents, that these maltreated soldiers were not cowards in flight.  She supported the women who had spit in the faces of the Thirty-second.  She actually said that if she had met them, she would have spit too.  Really, she was convinced of the innocence of the Thirty-second, but something prevented her from admitting it.  The dispute ended with high words between herself and Chirac.

The next day Chirac came home at an unusual hour, knocked at the kitchen door, and said: 

“I must give notice to leave you.”

“Why?” she demanded curtly.

She was kneading flour and water for a potato-cake.  Her potato-cakes were the joy of the household.

“My paper has stopped!” said Chirac.

“Oh!” she added thoughtfully, but not looking at him.  “That is no reason why you should leave.”

“Yes,” he said.  “This place is beyond my means.  I do not need to tell you that in ceasing to appear the paper has omitted to pay its debts.  The house owes me a month’s salary.  So I must leave.”

“No!” said Sophia.  “You can pay me when you have money.”

He shook his head.  “I have no intention of accepting your kindness.”

“Haven’t you got any money?” she abruptly asked.

“None,” said he.  “It is the disaster—­quite simply!”

“Then you will be forced to get into debt somewhere.”

“Yes, but not here!  Not to you!”

“Truly, Chirac,” she exclaimed, with a cajoling voice, “you are not reasonable.”

“Nevertheless it is like that!” he said with decision.

“Eh, well!” she turned on him menacingly.  “It will not be like that!  You understand me?  You will stay.  And you will pay me when you can.  Otherwise we shall quarrel.  Do you imagine I shall tolerate your childishness?  Just because you were angry last night——­”