lows, you don't know the worth of money!'

This time he was hooted. What a philistine! And the invectives
continued, when some light taps on one of the window-panes suddenly made
the din cease.

'She is really becoming a nuisance,' said Mahoudeau, with a gesture of
annoyance.

'Eh? Who is it? The herbalist woman?' asked Jory. 'Let her come in; it
will be great fun.'

The door indeed had already been opened, and Mahoudeau's neighbour,
Madame Jabouille, or Mathilde, as she was familiarly called, appeared
on the threshold. She was about thirty, with a flat face horribly
emaciated, and passionate eyes, the lids of which had a bluish tinge as
if they were bruised. It was said that some members of the clergy had
brought about her marriage with little Jabouille, at a time when the
latter's business was still flourishing, thanks to the custom of all
the pious folk of the neighbourhood. The truth was, that one sometimes
espied black cassocks stealthily crossing that mysterious shop, where
all the aromatic herbs set a perfume of incense. A kind of cloistral
quietude pervaded the place; the devotees who came in spoke in low
voices, as if in a confessional, slipped their purchases into their bags
furtively, and went off with downcast eyes. Unfortunately, some very
horrid rumours had got abroad--slander invented by the wine-shop
keeper opposite, said pious folks. At any rate, since the widower had
re-married, the business had been going to the dogs. The glass jars
seemed to have lost all their brightness, and the dried herbs, suspended
from the ceiling, were tumbling to dust. Jabouille himself was coughing
his life out, reduced to a very skeleton. And although Mathilde
professed to be religious, the pious customers gradually deserted
her, being of opinion that she made herself too conspicuous with young
fellows of the neighbourhood now that Jabouille was almost eaten out of
house and home.

For a moment Mathilde remained motionless, blinking her eyes. A pungent
smell had spread through the shop, a smell of simples, which she brought
with her in her clothes and greasy, tumbled hair; the sickly sweetness
of mallow, the sharp odour of elderseed, the bitter effluvia of rhubarb,
but, above all, the hot whiff of peppermint, which seemed like her very
breath.

She made a gesture of feigned surprise. 'Oh, dear me! you have
company--I did not know; I'll drop in again.'

'Yes, do,' said Mahoudeau, looking very vexed. 'Besides, I am g