At the end of the day M. Chebe, dazed, bewildered, worn out by the labor of other people, would stretch himself out in his easy-chair and say to his wife, as he wiped his forehead: 

“That’s the kind of life I need—­an active life.”

Madame Chebe would smile softly without replying.  Accustomed as she was to all her husband’s whims, she had made herself as comfortable as possible in a back room with an outlook upon a dark yard, consoling herself with reflections on the former prosperity of her parents and her daughter’s wealth; and, being always neatly dressed, she had succeeded already in acquiring the respect of neighbors and tradesmen.

She asked nothing more than not to be confounded with the wives of workingmen, often less poor than herself, and to be allowed to retain, in spite of everything, a petty bourgeois superiority.  That was her constant thought; and so the back room in which she lived, and where it was dark at three in the afternoon, was resplendent with order and cleanliness.  During the day the bed became a couch, an old shawl did duty as a tablecloth, the fireplace, hidden by a screen, served as a pantry, and the meals were cooked in modest retirement on a stove no larger than a foot-warmer.  A tranquil life—­that was the dream of the poor woman, who was continually tormented by the whims of an uncongenial companion.

In the early days of his tenancy, M. Chebe had caused these words to be inscribed in letters a foot long on the fresh paint of his shop-front: 

         &nb
sp;Commission—­exportation

No specifications.  His neighbors sold tulle, broadcloth, linen; he was inclined to sell everything, but could not make up his mind just what.  With what arguments did his indecision lead him to favor Madame Chebe as they sat together in the evening!

“I don’t know anything about linen; but when you come to broadcloth, I understand that.  Only, if I go into broadcloths I must have a man to travel; for the best kinds come from Sedan and Elbeuf.  I say nothing about calicoes; summer is the time for them.  As for tulle, that’s out of the question; the season is too far advanced.”

He usually brought his discourse to a close with the words: 

“The night will bring counsel—­let us go to bed.”

And to bed he would go, to his wife’s great relief.

After three or four months of this life, M. Chebe began to tire of it.  The pains in the head, the dizzy fits gradually returned.  The quarter was noisy and unhealthy:  besides, business was at a standstill.  Nothing was to be done in any line, broadcloths, tissues, or anything else.

It was just at the period of this new crisis that “Mademoiselle Planus, my sister,” called to speak about Sidonie.

The old maid had said to herself on the way, “I must break it gently.”  But, like all shy people, she relieved herself of her burden in the first words she spoke after entering the house.