Zilah was both astonished and pained. He had not expected to encounter this wretched place, the poorly clad children, and the woman’s timid smile.
“Is Monsieur Jacquemin at home?” he asked abruptly, desiring to leave at once if the man whom he sought was not there.
“No, Monsieur; but he will not be long away. Sit down, Monsieur, please!”
She entreated so gently, with such an uneasy air at the threatened departure of this man who had doubtless brought some good news for her husband, that the Prince mechanically obeyed, thinking again that there was evidently some mistake, and that it was not, it could not be, here that Jacquemin lived.
“Is it really your husband, Madame, who writes under the signature of Puck in ‘L’Actualite’?” he asked. The same proud smile appeared again upon her thin, wan face.
“Yes, Monsieur, yes, it is really he!” she replied. She was so happy whenever any one spoke to her of her Paul. She was in the habit of taking copies of L’Actualite to the concierge, the grocer, and the butcher; and she was so proud to show how well Paul wrote, and what fine connections he had—her Paul, whom she loved so much, and for whom she sat up late at night when it was necessary to prepare his linen for some great dinner or supper he was invited to.
“Oh! it is indeed he, Monsieur,” she said again, while Zilah watched her and listened in silence. “I don’t like to have him use pseudonyms, as he calls them. It gives me so much pleasure to see his real name, which is mine too, printed in full. Only it seems that it is better sometimes. Puck makes people curious, and they say, Who can it be? He also signed himself Gavroche in the Rabelais, you know, which did not last very long. You are perhaps a journalist also, Monsieur?”
“No,” said Zilah.
“Ah! I thought you were! But, after all, perhaps you are right. It is a hard profession, I sometimes think. You have to be out so late. If you only knew, Monsieur, how poor Paul is forced to work even at night! It tires him so, and then it costs so much. I beg your pardon for leaving those gloves like that before you. I was cleaning them. He does not like cleaned gloves, though; he says it always shows. Well, I am a woman, and I don’t notice it. And then I take so much care of all that. It is necessary, and everything costs so dear. You see I—Gustave, don’t slap your little sister! you naughty boy!”
And going to the children, her sweet, frank eyes becoming sad at a quarrel between her little ones, she gently took the baby away from the oldest child, who cried, and went into a corner to pout, regarding his mother with the same impudent air which Zilah had perceived in the curl of Jacquemin’s lips when the reporter complained of the dearth of pretty women.