The garret itself was inhabited by a young widow, whose story was sufficiently sad.  She was the daughter of a farmer in the north of France, and married to a glazier, Jean Didier by name, with whom she had come to Paris in search of work.  If there had been no war, and, above all, no Commune, things might have gone well with the young couple, but, unhappily, one followed the other, and there was an end of peace.  Jean was no fool, but he was too certain that he was extremely wise not to make mistakes, and he possessed enough of the French nature to be easily influenced by the brag and fine promises which filled the air at that time.  It is always satisfactory to reflect on changes which assure us the highest step of a ladder, which ordinarily takes a life-time for a step.  Jean talked a great deal about it, not only to Marie, who would have been safe, but to others who agreed with him more thoroughly, and were dangerous.  Nevertheless, when the Commune, in March, 1871, broke into actual life, and Jean began to see what it all meant, he was terrified by the outburst and held back.  Things which look seductive in theory, have a way of losing their gloss when they appear as hard realities, with accompaniments which do not belong to the ideals; and the rabble rout of half-drunk citizens who marched, shouting, through the streets of the 19th arrondissement, frightened Marie out of her senses.  She clung to Jean, and implored him not to join them on pain of breaking her heart.  To do him justice, common sense, perhaps aided by a desire to keep out of the way of rifle-balls, was proving stronger than bombast; and, to do him justice again, he was desirous to keep others than himself from danger.

It was this which brought about the catastrophe.  May came, and with it the conquering troops from Versailles poured into the city.  It was sufficiently clear what the end would be; Jean, who never distrusted his own reasoning powers, insisted, in spite of his wife’s prayers and Plon’s expostulations, in going out into the streets, and trying to dissuade some of his comrades from fighting.  He promised to return immediately, but he did not come, Marie became almost frenzied with terror.  She would have rushed out to seek him, but that she knew not where to turn, and if he came, wanting help, and she was not there to give it, matters might go hardly with him.  The din of battle drew nearer, shells were falling, bullets were whizzing, it seemed hardly possible that any one could escape, and yet, men went by shouting and singing, mad with either drink or excitement.  Plon, after entreating Madame Didier to come farther into shelter, shut himself into his little room with a white face, and was seen no more.  Everything seemed to grow more horrid as the night drew on.

At about ten o’clock, Plon, hearing voices in the passage, peeped out.  There still stood Madame Didier, wan as a ghost, but with the restless excitement gone.  A man was speaking to her, an elderly, grimy, frightened-looking man, with a bald head.  He was telling a story in a dull, hopeless kind of way, as if at such a time no one story was particularly distinguished from another, and pity had to wait for quieter seasons.