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 further in, I perceived the fruit-woman, with 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, was crying in silence, and one of her neighbours was trying in vain to appease the countrywoman.  Excited by that love of money which the evils of a hard peasant life but too well excuse, and disappointed by the refusal of her expected wages, the nurse was launching forth in recriminations, threats, and abuse.  In spite of myself, I listened to the quarrel, not daring to interfere, and not thinking of going away, when Michael Arout appeared at the shop-door.

The joiner had just come from the Barrier, where he had passed part of the day at the public-house.  His blouse, without a belt, and untied at the throat, showed none of the noble stains of work:  in his hand he held his cap, which he had just picked out of the mud; his hair was in disorder, his eye fixed, and the pallor of drunkenness in his face.  He came reeling in, looked wildly around him, and called for Genevieve.

She heard his voice, gave a start, and rushed into the shop; but at the sight of the miserable man, who was trying in vain to steady himself, she pressed the child in her arms, and bent over it with tears.

The countrywoman and the neighbour had followed her.

“Come! come!  Do you intend to pay me, after all?” cried the former, in a rage.

“Ask the master for the money,” ironically answered the woman from next door, pointing to the joiner, who had just fallen against the counter.

The countrywoman looked at him.

“Ah! he is the father,” resumed she; “well, what idle beggars! not to have a penny to pay honest people, and get tipsy with wine in that way.”

The drunkard raised his head.

“What! what!” stammered he; “who is it that talks of wine?  I’ve had nothing but brandy.  But I am going back again to get some wine.  Wife, give me your money; there are some friends waiting for me at the Pere la Tuille.”

Genevieve did not answer:  he went round the counter, opened the till, and began to rummage in it.

“You see where the money of the house goes!” observed the neighbour to the countrywoman; “how can the poor unhappy woman pay you when he takes all?”

“Is that my fault, then?” replied the nurse angrily; “they owe it me, and somehow or other they must pay me.”

And letting loose her tongue, as those women out of the country do, she began relating at length all the care she had taken of the child, and all the expense it had been to her.  In proportion as she recalled all she had done, her words seemed to convince her more than ever of her rights, and to increase her anger.  The poor mother, who no doubt feared that her violence would frighten the child, returned into the back shop, and put it into its cradle.