There is an indigence which the poor know how to divine. The pastry-cook and his wife looked at each other and watched the old lady, while they exchanged the same thought. That _louis d’or_ seemed to be the last. The hands of the lady trembled in offering that piece, which she looked upon with sadness and without avarice, for she seemed to realize the full extent of the sacrifice. Fasting and misery were graven upon that face in lines quite as legible as those of fear and her habits of asceticism. There were in her garments some vestiges of magnificence: the silk was threadbare, the cloak neat though old-fashioned, the lace carefully mended--in short, the tatters of opulence! The tradespeople, placed between pity and self-interest, commenced to solace their consciences by words: “But Citizeness, you seem very feeble--” “Perhaps Madame would like to take some refreshment?” asked the woman, cutting the words of her husband short. “We are not so black as we are painted!” cried the pastry-cook. “It’s so cold! Madame was perhaps chilled by her walk? But you may rest here and warm yourself a little.” Won by the tone of benevolence which animated the words of the charitable shopkeepers, the lady avowed that she had been followed by a stranger, and that she was afraid to return home alone. “It is no more than that?” replied the man with the red hat. “Wait for me, Citizeness.” He gave the _louis_ to his wife; then, moved by that species of restitution which glides into the conscience of a merchant when he has received an exorbitant price for merchandise of mediocre value, he went to put on his uniform of the National Guard, took his chapeau, thrust his sabre into his belt, and reappeared under arms; but his wife had had time to reflect. As in many other hearts, reflection closed the hand opened by beneficence. Disturbed, and fearing to see her husband in a bad affair, the pastry-cook’s wife essayed to stop him by tugging at the skirt of his coat. But, obedient to a sentiment of charity, the brave man offered to escort the old lady at once. “It seems that the man who frightened the Citizeness is still prowling about the shop,” said the young woman nervously. “I am afraid so,” artlessly replied the lady. “If he should be a spy! If it should be a conspiracy! Don’t go; and take back from her the box.” These words, breathed into the ear of the pastry-cook by his wife, froze the impromptu courage which had possessed him. “Eh’ I’ll just go out and say two words to him, and rid you of him quickly,” cried the pastry-cook, opening the door and rushing out. The old lady, passive as an infant, and almost dazed, reseated herself upon the chair. The honest merchant was not slow in reappearing; his face, naturally red, and still more flushed by the heat of his oven, had suddenly become livid; such a great fright agitated him that his legs trembled and his eyes looked like those of a drunken man.