This morning, while I was arranging my books, Mother Genevieve came in, and brought me the basket of fruit I buy of her every Sunday.  For the nearly twenty years that I have lived in this quarter, I have dealt in her little fruit-shop.  Perhaps I should be better served elsewhere, but Mother Genevieve has but little custom; to leave her would do her harm, and cause her unnecessary pain.  It seems to me that the length of our acquaintance has made me incur a sort of tacit obligation to her; my patronage has become her property.

She has put the basket upon my table, and as I want her husband, who is a joiner, to add some shelves to my bookcase, she has gone downstairs again immediately to send him to me.

At first I did not notice either her looks or the sound of her voice:  but, now that I recall them, it seems to me that she was not as jovial as usual.  Can Mother Genevieve be in trouble about anything?

Poor woman!  All her best years were subject to such bitter trials, that she might think she had received her full share already.  Were I to live a hundred years, I should never forget the circumstances which made her known to me, and which obtained for her my respect.

It was at the time of my first settling in the faubourg.  I had noticed her empty fruit-shop, which nobody came into, and, being attracted by its forsaken appearance, I made my little purchases in it.  I have always instinctively preferred the poor shops; there is less choice in them, but it seems to me that my purchase is a sign of sympathy with a brother in poverty.  These little dealings are almost always an anchor of hope to those whose very existence is in peril—­the only means by which some orphan gains a livelihood.  There the aim of the tradesman is not to enrich himself, but to live!  The purchase you make of him is more than an exchange—­it is a good action.

Mother Genevieve at that time was still young, but had already lost that fresh bloom of youth which suffering causes to wither so soon among the poor.  Her husband, a clever joiner, gradually left off working to become, according to the picturesque expression of the workshops, a worshipper of Saint Monday.  The wages of the week, which was always reduced to two or three working days, were completely dedicated by him to the worship of this god of the Barriers,—­[The cheap wine shops are outside the Barriers, to avoid the octroi, or municipal excise.]—­and Genevieve was obliged herself to provide for all the wants of the household.

One evening, when I went to make some trifling purchases of her, I heard a sound of quarrelling in the back shop.  There were the voices of several women, among which I distinguished that of Genevieve, broken by sobs.  On looking farther in, I perceived the fruit-woman holding a child in her arms, and kissing it, while a country nurse seemed to be claiming her wages from her.  The poor woman, who without doubt had exhausted every explanation and every excuse,