“Look at those two,” recommenced Baudu, pointing with his knife to Geneviève and Colomban. “Ask them if they like your Ladies' Paradise.” Side by side in the usual place where they had found themselves twice a-day for the last twelve years, the engaged couple were eating in moderation, and without uttering a word. He, exaggerating the coarse good-nature of his face, seemed to be concealing, behind his drooping eyelashes, the inner flame which was devouring him; whilst she, her head bowed lower beneath her too heavy hair, seemed to be giving way entirely, as if ravaged by a secret grief. “Last year was very disastrous,” explained Baudu, “and we have been obliged to postpone the marriage, not for our own pleasure; ask them what they think of your friends.” Denise, in order to pacify him, interrogated the young people. “Naturally I can't be very fond of them,” replied Geneviève. “But never fear, every one doesn't detest them.” And she looked at Colomban, who was rolling up some bread-crumbs with an absorbed air. When he felt the young girl's gaze directed towards him, he broke out into a series of violent exclamations: “A rotten shop! A lot of rogues, every man-jack of them! A regular pest in the neighbourhood!” “You hear him!' You hear him!” exclaimed Baudu, delighted. “There's one they'll never get hold of! Ah! my boy, you're the last of the old stock, we sha'n't see any more!” But Geneviève, with her severe and suffering look, still kept her eyes on Colomban, diving into the depths of his heart. And he felt troubled, he redoubled his invectives. Madame Baudu was watching them with an anxious air, as if she foresaw another misfortune in this direction. For some time her daughter's sadness had frightened her, she felt her to be dying. “The shop is left to take care of itself,” said she at last, quitting the table, desirous of putting an end to the scene. “Go and see, Colomban; I fancy I heard some one.” They had finished, and got up. Baudu and Colomban went to speak to a traveller, who had come for orders. Madame Baudu carried Pépé off to show him some pictures. The servant had quickly cleared the table, and Denise was lounging by the window, looking into the little back yard, when turning round she saw Geneviève still in her place, her eyes fixed on the American cloth, which was still damp from the sponge having been passed over it. “Are you suffering, cousin?” she asked. The young girl did not reply, obstinately studying a rent in the cloth, too preoccupied by the reflections passing through her mind. Then she raised her head with pain, and looked at the sympathising face bent over hers. The others had gone, then? What was she doing on this chair? And suddenly a flood of sobs stifled her, her head fell forward on the edge of the table. She wept on, wetting her sleeve with her tears. “Good heavens! what's the matter with you?” cried Denise in dismay. “Shall I call some one?”