He, Morange, was the son of a petty commercial clerk who had died on his stool after forty years of cloistral office-life.  And he had married a clerk’s daughter, one Valerie Duchemin, the eldest of four girls whose parents’ home had been turned into a perfect hell, full of shameful wretchedness and unacknowledgable poverty, through this abominable incumbrance.  Valerie, who was good-looking and ambitious, was lucky enough, however, to marry that handsome, honest, and hard-working fellow, Morange, although she was quite without a dowry; and, this accomplished, she indulged in the dream of climbing a little higher up the social ladder, and freeing herself from the loathsome world of petty clerkdom by making the son whom she hoped to have either an advocate or a doctor.  Unfortunately the much-desired child proved to be a girl; and Valerie trembled, fearful of finding herself at last with four daughters on her hands, just as her mother had.  Her dream thereupon changed, and she resolved to incite her husband onward to the highest posts, so that she might ultimately give her daughter a large dowry, and by this means gain that admittance to superior spheres which she so eagerly desired.  Her husband, who was weak and extremely fond of her, ended by sharing her ambition, ever revolving schemes of pride and conquest for her benefit.  But he had now been eight years at the Beauchene works, and he still earned but five thousand francs a year.  This drove him and his wife to despair.  Assuredly it was not at Beauchene’s that he would ever make his fortune.

“You see!” he exclaimed, after going a couple of hundred yards with Mathieu along the Boulevard de Grenelle, “it is that new house yonder at the street corner.  It has a stylish appearance, eh?”

Mathieu then perceived a lofty modern pile, ornamented with balconies and sculpture work, which looked quite out of place among the poor little houses predominating in the district.

“Why, it is a palace!” he exclaimed, in order to please Morange, who thereupon drew himself up quite proudly.

“You will see the staircase, my dear fellow!  Our place, you know, is on the fifth floor.  But that is of no consequence with such a staircase, so easy, so soft, that one climbs it almost without knowing.”

Thereupon Morange showed his guest into the vestibule as if he were ushering him into a temple.  The stucco walls gleamed brightly; there was a carpet on the stairs, and colored glass in the windows.  And when, on reaching the fifth story, the cashier opened the door with his latchkey, he repeated, with an air of delight:  “You will see, you will see!”

Valerie and Reine must have been on the watch, for they hastened forward.  At thirty-two Valerie was still young and charming.  She was a pleasant-looking brunette, with a round smiling face in a setting of superb hair.  She had a full, round bust, and admirable shoulders, of which her husband felt quite proud whenever she showed herself in a low-necked dress.  Reine, at this time twelve years old, was the very portrait of her mother, showing much the same smiling, if rather longer, face under similar black tresses.