One spring we talked a lot about a trip we would take some day.  Some railway posters had been stuck on the walls of the old tin works, that the Pocard scheme was going to transfigure.  We looked at them the day they were freshly brilliant in their wet varnish and their smell of paste.  We preferred the bill about Corsica, which showed seaside landscapes, harbors with picturesque people in the foreground and a purple mountain behind, all among garlands.  And later, even when stiffened and torn and cracking in the wind, that poster attracted us.

One evening, in the kitchen, when we had just come in—­there are memories which mysteriously outlive the rest—­and Marie was lighting the fire, with her hat on and her hands wiped out in the twilight by the grime of the coal, she said, “We’ll make that trip later!”

Sometimes it happened that we went out, she and I, during the week.  I looked about me and shared my thoughts with her.  Never very talkative, she would listen to me.  Coming out of the Place de l’Eglise, which used to affect us so much not long ago, we often used to meet Jean and Genevieve Trompson, near the sunken post where an old jam pot lies on the ground.  Everybody used to say of these two, “They’ll separate, you’ll see; that’s what comes of loving each other too much; it was madness, I always said so.”  And hearing these things, unfortunately true, Marie would murmur, with a sort of obstinate gentleness, “Love is sacred.”

Returning, not far from the anachronistic and clandestine Eudo’s lair, we used to hear the coughing parrot.  That old bird, worn threadbare, and of a faded green hue, never ceased to imitate the fits of coughing which two years before had torn Adolphe Piot’s lungs, who died in the midst of his family under such sad circumstances.  Those days we would return with our ears full of the obstinate clamor of that recording bird, which had set itself fiercely to immortalize the noise that passed for a moment through the world, and toss the echoes of an ancient calamity, of which everybody had ceased to think.

Almost the only people about us are Marthe, my little sister-in-law, who is six years old, and resembles her sister like a surprising miniature; my father-in-law, who is gradually annihilating himself; and Crillon.  This last lives always contented in the same shop while time goes by, like his father and his grandfather, and the cobbler of the fable, his eternal ancestor.  Under his square cap, on the edge of his glazed niche, he soliloquizes, while he smokes the short and juicy pipe which joins him in talking and spitting—­indeed, he seems to be answering it.  A lonely toiler, his lot is increasingly hard, and almost worthless.  He often comes in to us to do little jobs—­mend a table leg, re-seat a chair, replace a tile.  Then he says, “There’s summat I must tell you——­”

So he retails the gossip of the district, for it is against his conscience, as he frankly avows, to conceal what he knows.  And Heaven knows, there is gossip enough in our quarter!—­a complete network, above and below, of quarrels, intrigues and deceptions, woven around man, woman and the public in general.  One says, “It can’t be true!” and then thinks about something else.