The expression of his eyes enlightened Jack. Bélisaire believed him guilty of the robbery,—so true it is that accusations, however unfounded and however explained away, yet leave spots and tarnishes. When Bélisaire saw the letters of the superintendent at Indret, and heard the whole story, his whole face lighted up with his old smile. “Listen, Jack, it is too late to seek a lodging to-night; come with me, for I have a room where you can sleep tonight, and perhaps can suggest something that will suit you. But we will talk about that as we sup. Come now.” Behold the three—Jack, the pedler, and Madame Weber’s little one, whose new shoes clattered on the sidewalk famously—were soon hurrying along the streets. Bélisaire informed Jack that his sister was now a widow, and that he had gone into business with her. Occasionally, in the full tide of his history, he stopped to shout his old cry of “Hats! hats! Hats to sell!” But before he reached his home, he was obliged to lift into his arms Madame Weber’s little boy, who had begun to weep despairingly. “Poor little fellow!” said Bélisaire, “he is not in the habit of walking. He rarely goes out, and it is merely that I may take him out with me sometimes that I have had him measured for these new shoes. His mother is away from home at work all day; she is a good, hard-working woman, and has to leave her child to the care of a neighbor. Here we are!” They entered one of those large houses whose numerous windows are like narrow slits in the walls. The doors open on the long corridors, which serve as ante-rooms, where the poor people place their stoves and their boxes. At this hour they were at dinner. Jack, as he passed, looked in at the doors, which stood wide open. “Good evening,” said the pedler. “Good evening,” said the friendly voices from within. In some rooms it was different: there was no fire, no light—a woman and children watching for the father, who was at the wine-shop round the corner. The pedler’s room was at the top of the house, and he seemed very proud of it. “I am going to show you how well I am established, but you must wait until I have taken this child to its mother.” He looked under the door of a room opposite his own, pulled out a key and unlocked it, went directly to the stove where had simmered all day the soup for the evening meal. He lighted a candle and fastened the child into a high chair at the table, gave it a spoon and a saucepan to play with, and then said, “Come away quickly; Madame Weber will be here in a minute, and I wish to hear what she will say when she sees the child’s new shoes.” He smiled as he opened his room—a long attic divided in two. A pile of hats told his business, and the bare walls his poverty.