the wheelbarrows, the
great bales of merchandise at the neighboring doors, the packages of rich
stuffs and trimmings which were dragged in the mud before being consigned
to those underground regions, those dark holes stuffed with treasures,
where the fortune of business lies in embryo--all these things delighted
M. Chebe.

He amused himself guessing at the contents of the bales and was first at
the fray when some passer-by received a heavy package upon his feet, or
the horses attached to a dray, spirited and restive, made the long
vehicle standing across the street an obstacle to circulation. He had,
moreover, the thousand-and-one distractions of the petty tradesman
without customers, the heavy showers, the accidents, the thefts, the
disputes.

At the end of the day M. Chebe, dazed, bewildered, worn out by the labor
of other people, would stretch himself out in his easy-chair and say to
his wife, as he wiped his forehead:

"That's the kind of life I need--an active life."

Madame Chebe would smile softly without replying. Accustomed as she was
to all her husband's whims, she had made herself as comfortable as
possible in a back room with an outlook upon a dark yard, consoling
herself with reflections on the former prosperity of her parents and her
daughter's wealth; and, being always neatly dressed, she had succeeded
already in acquiring the respect of neighbors and tradesmen.

She asked nothing more than not to be confounded with the wives of
workingmen, often less poor than herself, and to be allowed to retain, in
spite of everything, a petty bourgeois superiority. That was her constant
thought; and so the back room in which she lived, and where it was dark
at three in the afternoon, was resplendent with order and cleanliness.
During the day the bed became a couch, an old shawl did duty as a
tablecloth, the fireplace, hidden by a screen, served as a pantry, and
the meals were cooked in modest retirement on a stove no larger than a
foot-warmer. A tranquil life--that was the dream of the poor woman, who
was continually tormented by the whims of an uncongenial companion.

In the early days of his tenancy, M. Chebe had caused these words to be
inscribed in letters a foot long on the fresh paint of his shop-front:

COMMISSION--EXPORTATION

No specifications. His neighbors sold tulle, broadcloth, linen; he was
inclined to sell everything, but could not make up his mind just what.
With what arguments did h