"That's only a dream," said Jacques Houdaille. "There's amongst us a pack of idlers and incompetents, who don't earn even the wages they get now; and then the workman knows nothing about account-keeping, and likes to see his way clearly; I only know what I am paid."
Marianne laughed as she thought of her husband's rough way of speaking.
What more could be expected of him? He hammered iron all day, swinging heavy sledge-hammers, bare-armed, in the red light of the forge. That kind of work did not give him polite manners, but he was so kind-hearted, and could express himself so tenderly when he chose: so long as he kept from drink; and he had refrained already for several months.
And Marianne, as she cast her eyes about her, felt a thrill of happiness. She was in her own home, and everything in it had been gained without owing a sou to anybody: the neat furniture, a handsome, brightly polished commode with its marble top, and on the mantelpiece a large gilt clock, "warranted for two years." It was comfort, almost ease! Oh, if it would only last for ever! And why should it not?
Seven o'clock struck.
"Heavens! I must see to my dinner!"
II.—The Evening Meal.
She sprang up from her seat, hurried to the kitchen, stirred up the fire, then returned to the little sitting-room, cleared the table, and set out the dinner things.
"HE HAMMERED IRON ALL DAY."