“We’re saved from that gang!” people say, when they approach each other.

This feeling of deliverance pervades the most lowly.  On the step of the little blood-red restaurant I spy Monsieur Mielvaque, hopping for joy.  He is shivering, too, in his thin gray coat, cracked with wrinkles, that looks like wrapping paper; and one would say that his dwindled face had at long last caught the hue of the folios he desperately copies among his long days and his short nights, to pick up some sprigs of extra pay.  There he stands, not daring to enter the restaurant (for a reason he knows too well); but how delighted he is with the day’s triumph for society!  And Mademoiselle Constantine, the dressmaker, incurably poor and worn away by her sewing-machine, is overjoyed.  She opens wide the eyes which seem eternally full of tears, and in the grayish abiding half-mourning of imperfect cleanliness, in pallid excitement, she claps her hands.

Marie and I can hear the furious desperate hammering of Brisbille in his forge, and we begin to laugh as we have not laughed for a long time.

At night, before going to sleep, I recall my former democratic fancies.  Thank God, I have escaped from a great peril!  I can see it clearly by the terror which the workmen’s menace spread in decent circles, and by the universal joy which greeted their recoil!  My deepest tendencies take hold of me again for good, and everything settles down as before.

* * * * * *

Much time has gone by.  It is ten years now since I was married, and in that lapse of time there is hardly a happening that I remember, unless it be the disillusion of the death of Marie’s rich godmother, who left us nothing.  There was the failure of the Pocard scheme, which was only a swindle and ruined many small people.  Politics pervaded the scandal, while certain people hurried with their money to Monsieur Boulaque, whose scheme was much more safe and substantial.  There was also my father-in-law’s illness and his death, which was a great shock to Marie, and put us into black clothes.

I have not changed.  Marie has somewhat.  She has got stouter; her eyelids look tired and red, and she buries herself in silences.  We are no longer quite in accord in details of our life.  She who once always said “Yes,” is now primarily disposed to say “No.”  If I insist she defends her opinion, obstinately, sourly; and sometimes dishonestly.  For example, in the matter of pulling down the partition downstairs, if people had heard our high voices they would have thought there was a quarrel.  Following some of our discussions, she keeps her face contracted and spiteful, or assumes the martyr’s air, and sometimes there are moments of hatred between us.

Often she says, while talking of something else, “Ah, if we had had a child, all would have been different!”

I am becoming personally negligent, through a sort of idleness, against which I have not sufficient grounds for reaction.  When we are by ourselves, at meal times, my hands are sometimes questionable.  From day to day, and from month to month, I defer going to the dentist and postpone the attention required.  I am allowing my molars to get jagged.