When Eve heard that the Cointets meant to spoil her poor little speculation, dread seized upon her; at first she tried to see a proof of attachment in Cérizet’s hypocritical warning of competition; but before long she saw signs of an over-keen curiosity in her sole compositor--the curiosity of youth, she tried to think. “Cérizet,” she said one morning, “you stand about on the threshold, and wait for M. Séchard in the passage, to pry into his private affairs; when he comes out into the yard to melt down the rollers, you are there looking at him, instead of getting on with the almanac. These things are not right, especially when you see that I, his wife, respect his secrets, and take so much trouble on myself to leave him free to give himself up to his work. If you had not wasted time, the almanac would be finished by now, and Kolb would be selling it, and the Cointets could have done us no harm.” “Eh! madame,” answered Cérizet. “Here am I doing five francs’ worth of composing for two francs a day, and don’t you think that that is enough? Why, if I did not read proofs of an evening for the Cointets, I might feed myself on husks.” “You are turning ungrateful early,” said Eve, deeply hurt, not so much by Cérizet’s grumbling as by his coarse tone, threatening attitude, and aggressive stare; “you will get on in life.” “Not with a woman to order me about though, for it is not often that the month has thirty days in it then.” Feeling wounded in her womanly dignity, Eve gave Cérizet a withering look and went upstairs again. At dinner-time she spoke to David. “Are you sure, dear, of that little rogue Cérizet?” “Cérizet!” said David. “Why, he was my youngster; I trained him, I took him on as my copy-holder. I put him to composing; anything that he is he owes to me, in fact! You might as well ask a father if he is sure of his child.” Upon this, Eve told her husband that Cérizet was reading proofs for the Cointets. “Poor fellow! he must live,” said David, humbled by the consciousness that he had not done his duty as a master. “Yes, but there is a difference, dear, between Kolb and Cérizet--Kolb tramps about twenty leagues every day, spends fifteen or twenty sous, and brings us back seven and eight and sometimes nine francs of sales; and when his expenses are paid, he never asks for more than his wages. Kolb would sooner cut off his hand than work a lever for the Cointets; Kolb would not peer among the things that you throw out into the yard if people offered him a thousand crowns to do it; but Cérizet picks them up and looks at them.” It is hard for noble natures to think evil, to believe in ingratitude; only through rough experience do they learn the extent of human corruption; and even when there is nothing left them to learn in this kind, they rise to an indulgence which is the last degree of contempt. “Pooh! pure Paris street-boy’s curiosity,” cried David.