“Monsieur Lebeau again!” she exclaimed, shrinking back.
“At your service, chere dame. The goodman is of course at home? Ah, I catch sight of him,” and sliding by the woman, M. Lebeau passed the narrow lobby in which she stood, through the open door conducting into the room in which Armand Monnier was seated, his chin propped on his hand, his elbow resting on a table, looking abstractedly into space. In a corner of the room two small children were playing languidly with a set of bone tablets, inscribed with the letters of the alphabet. But whatever the children were doing with the alphabet, they were certainly not learning to read from it.
The room was of fair size and height, and by no means barely or shabbily furnished. There was a pretty clock on the mantelpiece. On the wall were hung designs for the decoration of apartments, and shelves on which were ranged a few books.
The window was open, and on the sill were placed flowerpots; you could scent the odour they wafted into the room. Altogether it was an apartment suited to a skilled artisan earning high wages. From the room we are now in, branched on one side a small but commodious kitchen; on the other side, on which the door was screened by a portiere, with a border prettily worked by female hands—some years ago, for it was faded now—was a bedroom, communicating with one of less size in which the children slept. We do not enter those additional rooms, but it may be well here to mention them as indications of the comfortable state of an intelligent skilled artisan of Paris, who thinks he can better that state by some revolution which may ruin his employer.
Monnier started up at the entrance of Lebeau, and his face showed that he did not share the dislike to the visit which that of the female partner of his life had evinced. On the contrary, his smile was cordial, and there was a hearty ring in the voice which cried out—
“I am glad to see you—something to do? Eh!”
“Always ready to work for liberty, mon brave.”
“I hope so: what’s in the wind now?”
“O Armand, be prudent—be prudent!” cried the woman, piteously. “Do not lead him into further mischief, Monsieur Lebeau;” as she faltered forth the last words, she bowed her head over the two little ones, and her voice died in sobs.
“Monnier,” said Lebeau, gravely, “Madame is right. I ought not to lead you into further mischief; there are three in the room who have better claims on you than—”