In the street below heavy clattering steps were heard upon the pavement: it was the work-people going home. Some slouched along, with their hands in their pockets, scenting the wide-open cabaret; others quickened their pace, eager to get back to their firesides, to the kind faces of their housewives and their shock-headed children.
The door opened abruptly; it was he, tall, strong, all black—a handsome man under his rough skin and bushy beard. The children, who had waited for his coming out of the factory, were with him. They seated themselves at table and Marianne brought in the soup.
The blacksmith was fond of soup, fond of the good odour which escaped from the brown tureen; and he proved it by having his plate filled three times to the brim.
Yet he did not look in a good temper. His clear blue eyes flashed under his knit brows, and it was with rough gesture he emptied the glass of wine Marianne had taken pleasure in pouring out for him.
"This state of things can't go on much longer," he said, as if speaking to himself.
"What has happened?" asked Marianne, anxiously. "Haven't you been paid your wages?"
"Thunder! It only wants to come to that. If ever they don't pay me, I'll burn down the whole shop!"
"How strange you are to-night! What is the matter with you?"
"What's the matter? Well, never you mind; women have nothing to do with such things."
"Give me your money, Jacques," said Marianne, speaking softly, thinking that he had forgotten himself a little on leaving the factory, and that it was well to take precautions.