"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, chère Madame Chalumeau?" he asked briskly.
"Yes; some coloured tablecloths, very pretty, at one franc seventy-five—and—some other things. But, Désiré, you were saying about living alone—that you thought Joséphine 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, Désiré, 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.