and looked approvingly
round the tidy, comfortable little room.

"Yes--Desire? She would----"

"I think she would--wish me to do the best I can for myself. And that,
of course--I mean to say I imagine----"

Poor Bathilde's hopes died suddenly.

"She was always so generous-minded," she murmured, folding her plump
hands.

He rose and walked to the shop door.

"Anything new to show me, _chere_ Madame Chalumeau?" he asked briskly.

"Yes; some coloured tablecloths, very pretty, at one franc
seventy-five--and--some other things. But, Desire, you were saying about
living alone--that you thought Josephine would be glad----"

"I did not say she would be glad, Madame Chalumeau. My wife was never
_glad_ about anything. I said--in fact, I may as well be quite frank,"
he continued, turning to her, "I am a lonely man, and I am--greatly
attracted to you, dear friend. But as I have told you before, I--I
cannot quite make up my mind as to whether I should be happier if I
married you."

"I could make you very comfortable, Desire, and I, too, am lonely.
Besides, your accounts are very confused, and I could save you much
money in that way."

A shrewd woman, this, but greatly mistaken in her methods. A useless,
lazy, coquettish woman would have married the man years before, but poor
Bathilde's very frankness was her undoing.

"Yes, yes," he returned impatiently, "I know all that, and my affection
for you is great. But as to marriage--I cannot yet make up my mind. And
in the meantime I must leave you, dear friend, for it is late. A
thousand thanks for the delicious breakfast----" and he was gone.

CHAPTER TWO

The tragedy of M. Bouillard's indecision was very real to Madame
Chalumeau, but it was also one to which the good woman was thoroughly
accustomed. For over three years M. Bouillard had twice yearly, on the
fifth of March and the fifth of September, tried to bring himself to
make up his mind, but he had always failed, and after his attempts
things had continued as before.

Every morning he breakfasted with her, every Sunday and Feast-day he
accompanied her to Mass, and occasionally he took her to drink a glass
of Hydromel at the Cafe du Musee. He was a prosperous man in a small
way, and considered attractive by the widows and elderly maidens of
Falaise; but no one dreamed of disputing Madame Chalumeau's sway over
his heart. In time, Falaise thought, the two excellent people would
become one. But time is long.