“Wait a little longer, my dear. I expect to sell the business any day. Then we’ll have a villa in the country. We will grow our own salads and receive the rector in the salon. None will dream we ever lived in this pourriture of Paris.”
“You will take me with you, madame?”
“Yes, you shall be my adopted daughter. Then I will marry you to the village butcher and you shall have a lovely little daughter called Denise, after me.”
The girl made a grimace. “I don’t want to marry a butcher.”
“Fastidious one! Whom do you want to marry?”
“A poet.”
“Sentimental little fool! I suppose you’re thinking of that Florent Garnier who comes here and spends so much time staring at you.”
“Oh, madame! He never looks at me!”
“You think so. Sly one! Why, my dear, he’s head over heels in love with you. A good-for-nothing socialist, too. Take my advice, Poulette, love’s all very well, but it’s money that counts in the long run.”
Margot had indeed an unexpected ally in Florent Garnier. He was tall, strong, and dark, a carpenter by trade. Every day he took his after-dinner coffee in the bar. There he would sit quietly reading a book and smoking cigarettes. One day he said to her: