“No,” said Zilah.

“Ah!  I thought you were!  But, after all, perhaps you are right.  It is a hard profession, I sometimes think.  You have to be out so late.  If you only knew, Monsieur, how poor Paul is forced to work even at night!  It tires him so, and then it costs so much.  I beg your pardon for leaving those gloves like that before you.  I was cleaning them.  He does not like cleaned gloves, though; he says it always shows.  Well, I am a woman, and I don’t notice it.  And then I take so much care of all that.  It is necessary, and everything costs so dear.  You see I—­Gustave, don’t slap your little sister! you naughty boy!”

And going to the children, her sweet, frank eyes becoming sad at a quarrel between her little ones, she gently took the baby away from the oldest child, who cried, and went into a corner to pout, regarding his mother with the same impudent air which Zilah had perceived in the curl of Jacquemin’s lips when the reporter complained of the dearth of pretty women.

“It is certainly very astonishing that he does not come home,” continued the young wife, excusing to Zilah the absence of her Paul.  “He often breakfasts, however, in the city, at Brebant’s.  It seems that it is necessary for him to do so.  You see, at the restaurant he talks and hears news.  He couldn’t learn all that he knows here very well, could he?  I don’t know much of things that must be put in a newspaper.”

And she smiled a little sad smile, making even of her humility a pedestal for the husband so deeply loved and admired.

Zilah was beginning to feel ill at ease.  He had come with anger, expecting to encounter the little fop whom he had seen, and he found this humble and devoted woman, who spoke of her Paul as if she were speaking of her religion, and who, knowing nothing of the life of her husband, only loving him, sacrificed herself to him in this almost cruel poverty (a strange contrast to the life of luxury Jacquemin led elsewhere), with the holy trust of her unselfish love.

“Do you never accompany your husband anywhere?” asked Andras.

“I?  Oh, never!” she replied, with a sort of fright.  “He does not wish it—­and he is right.  You see, Monsieur, when he married me, five years ago, he was not what he is now; he was a railway clerk.  I was a working-girl; yes, I was a seamstress.  Then it was all right; we used to walk together, and we went to the theatre; he did not know any one.  It is different now.  You see, if the Baroness Dinati should see me on his arm, she would not bow to him, perhaps.”

“You are mistaken, Madame,” said the Hungarian, gently.  “You are the one who should be bowed to first.”

She did not understand, but she felt that a compliment was intended, and she blushed very red, not daring to say any more, and wondering if she had not chatted too much, as Jacquemin reproached her with doing almost every day.

“Does Monsieur Jacquemin go often to the theatre?” asked Andras, after a moment’s pause.