done at Issoudun.  Nevertheless, Roguin had forced Bridau to reflect upon the future interests of his wife which were thus compromised.  He saw that if he died before her, Agathe would be left without property, and this led him to look into his own affairs.  He found that between 1793 and 1805 his wife and he had been obliged to use nearly thirty thousand of the fifty thousand francs in cash which old Rouget had given to his daughter at the time of her marriage.  He at once invested the remaining twenty thousand in the public funds, then quoted at forty, and from this source Agathe received about two thousand francs a year.  As a widow, Madame Bridau could live suitably on an income of six thousand francs.  With provincial good sense, she thought of changing her residence, dismissing the footman, and keeping no servant except a cook; but her intimate friend, Madame Descoings, who insisted on being considered her aunt, sold her own establishment and came to live with Agathe, turning the study of the late Bridau into her bedroom.

The two widows clubbed their revenues, and so were in possession of a joint income of twelve thousand francs a year.  This seems a very simple and natural proceeding.  But nothing in life is more deserving of attention than the things that are called natural; we are on our guard against the unnatural and extraordinary.  For this reason, you will find men of experience—­lawyers, judges, doctors, and priests —­attaching immense importance to simple matters; and they are often thought over-scrupulous.  But the serpent amid flowers is one of the finest myths that antiquity has bequeathed for the guidance of our lives.  How often we hear fools, trying to excuse themselves in their own eyes or in the eyes of others, exclaiming, “It was all so natural that any one would have been taken in.”

In 1809, Madame Descoings, who never told her age, was sixty-five.  In her heyday she had been popularly called a beauty, and was now one of those rare women whom time respects.  She owed to her excellent constitution the privilege of preserving her good looks, which, however, would not bear close examination.  She was of medium height, plump, and fresh, with fine shoulders and a rather rosy complexion.  Her blond hair, bordering on chestnut, showed, in spite of her husband’s catastrophe, not a tinge of gray.  She loved good cheer, and liked to concoct nice little made dishes; yet, fond as she was of eating, she also adored the theatre and cherished a vice which she wrapped in impenetrable mystery—­she bought into lotteries.  Can that be the abyss of which mythology warns us under the fable of the Danaides and their cask?  Madame Descoings, like other women who are lucky enough to keep young for many years, spend rather too much upon her dress; but aside from these trifling defects she was the pleasantest of women to live with.  Of every one’s opinion, never opposing anybody, her kindly and communicative gayety gave pleasure to all.  She had, moreover, a Parisian quality which charmed the retired clerks and elderly merchants of her circle,—­she could take and give a jest.  If she did not marry a third time it was no doubt the fault of the times.  During the wars of the Empire, marrying men found rich and handsome girls too easily to trouble themselves about women of sixty.