‘Wait a little, sir, and I will tell you everything,’ said Monsieur Gastin, the little watchmaker. He ushered Lucius into a neat little sitting-room, which was evidently also his bedchamber, installed him in an arm-chair covered with bright yellow-velvet, took a second yellow-velvet chair for himself, clasped his bony hands upon his angular knee, and began his story. Through the half-glass door he commanded an admirable view of his shop, and was ready to spring up at any moment, should a customer invite his attention. ‘Old André Dumarques, the father, had been in the cotton trade, when the cotton trade, like almost every other trade, was a great deal better than it is now. He had made a little money—not very much, but just enough to afford him, when judiciously invested, an income that he could manage to live upon. Another man with a family like his might not have been able to live upon André Dumarques’ income; but he was a man of penurious habits, and could make five-and-twenty centimes go as far as half a franc with most people. He had married late in life, and his wife was a good deal too young and too pretty for him, and the neighbours did not fail to talk, as people do talk amongst our lively nation, about such matters. But Madame Dumarques was a good woman, and though every one knew pretty well that hers wasn’t a happy marriage, still no name ever came of it. She did her duty, and slaved herself to death to make both ends meet, and keep her house neat and clean. Number seventeen was a model to the rest of the street in those days, I can assure you.’ ‘She slaved herself to death, you say, sir? What does that mean?’ inquired Lucius. ‘It means that she became _poitrinaire_ when her youngest daughter—she had three daughters, but no son—was fifteen years old, and as pretty as her mother at the same age. Everybody had seen the poor woman fading gradually for the last six years, except her husband. He saw nothing, till the stamp of death was on her face, and then he went on like a madman. He spent his money freely enough then—had a doctor from Paris even to see her, because he wouldn’t believe the Rouen doctors when they told him his wife was past cure—and would have sacrificed anything to save her; but it was too late. A little rest and a little pleasure might have lengthened her life if she’d had it in time; but nothing could save her now. She died: and I shall never forget old André’s face when I saw him coming out of his house the day after her funeral.’ ‘He had been fond of her, then?’