It might be well to hark back a few hours and discover what was taking place in the shop which was to have its brief moment of fame.
M. Hilaire was a tradesman of good reputation in the quarter. His leanness and the singular expression of his countenance, which seemed to be laughing and crying at the same time, made of him a well-known figure. He was a boon companion to those whom he favored with his friendship, and a persistent card player; for he had a taste for the tap-room as well as a love of practical joking, notwithstanding that, to please his wife, he assumed the airs of a respectable tradesman.
His wife was the dark spot in Hilaire's otherwise fortunate existence, for Virginie was of a jealous temperament and endowed by nature with an execrable temper. Had he been free from Virginie and the competition of a provision merchant at the next corner, Hilaire would have been a perfectly happy man. It was said in the district that he had risen from nothing, but that was all to his credit. His enemies—the provision merchant and his wife, their customers and their circle—declared that M. Hilaire had spent a more than riotous youth and must be an ex-anarchist, for his language when he was in his cups showed little respect for the established order of society.
On that particular night M. Hilaire was in his shop making up his books. The reason why he was not in bed was that he was waiting up for his wife, with whom he had had a stormy altercation in connection with the girl who formed his sole staff, for the two young men who were learning how to sell golden syrup and prunes had left for the war, in which, in fact, they conducted themselves like heroes, and when they returned on leave from time to time each wore stripes on his arm and medals on his breast.
The girl in question was seventeen years of age, had dazzling teeth and a turned-up nose. She was as dark as a mole or a gypsy. Perhaps she was a gypsy. She spoke Italian. She was probably a child picked up in the streets. Hilaire did not go into these details when he engaged her. The girl bore a name which her character belied. She was called Sarah. Madame Hilaire called her Zoé.
Now this young creature, who worked under her mistress with the will of four men and was always of an exasperating good humor, had one serious failing: she possessed a pair of magnificent black eyes which seemed to laugh at the whole world. M. Hilaire found some diversion in those two eyes, and could not look at them without a smile. It was not the same thing with Madame Hilaire. She caught her husband on more than one occasion in the act of ogling the girl. She did not like it, and the scenes which ensued were sufficient proof of it.
That very evening she surprised them throwing prunes at each other. The thing caused a pretty disturbance. Zoé and Hilaire both received a box on the ear, and afterwards Madame Hilaire went upstairs to dress, vowing that she was fed up with a man who had no respect for his goods and did not know how to keep his place with his servant.
After locking Sarah-Zoé in her attic and putting the key in her pocket, she told her husband that she was going to stay with her mother until something better turned up. The threat, which was obviously directed at M. Hilaire's honor and was renewed at least once a week, was not calculated to stagger him. He knew that it was in Virginie's temperament to betray him, and that she had another fault: her love of cards. "Go and have a game of poker," he said to himself, "and make it last as long as possible."
She would come back cleaned out—that was the rule.
Meantime, in order to furnish himself with weapons that would give him the advantage, M. Hilaire was examining the books in detail. They were kept by his better half, who falsified them now and again in order to conceal slight borrowings from the cash, which she made without saying a word to her skinflint of a husband.