Caravan had installed his mother, whose avarice was notorious in the neighbourhood, and who was terribly thin, in the room above them. She was always in a bad temper and never passed a day without quarrelling and flying into furious tempers. She used to apostrophise the neighbours standing at their own doors, the vegetable venders, the street-sweepers, and the street-boys, in the most violent language. The latter, to have their revenge, used to follow her at a distance when she went out and call out rude things after her.
A little servant from Normandy, who was incredibly giddy and thoughtless, performed the household work, and slept on the second floor in the same room as the old woman, for fear of anything happening to her in the night.
When Caravan got in, his wife, who suffered from a chronic passion for cleaning, was polishing up the mahogany chairs, that were scattered about the room, with a piece of flannel. She always wore cotton gloves and adorned her head with a cap, ornamented with many coloured ribbons, which was always tilted on one ear, and whenever anyone caught her, polishing, sweeping, or washing, she used to say:
“I am not rich; everything is very simple in my house, but cleanliness is my luxury, and that is worth quite as much as any other.”
As she was gifted with sound, obstinate, practical common sense, she swayed her husband in everything. Every evening during dinner, and afterward, when they were in bed, they talked over the business in the office, and, although she was twenty years younger, he confided everything to her as if she had had the direction, and followed her advice in every matter.
She had never been pretty, and now had grown ugly; in addition to that, she was short and thin, while her careless and tasteless way of dressing herself hid the few, small feminine attributes which might have been brought out if she had possessed any skill in dress. Her petticoats were always awry, and she frequently scratched herself, no matter on what place, totally indifferent as to who might be there, out of a sort of habit which had become almost an unconscious movement. The only ornaments that she allowed herself were silk ribbons, which she had in great profusion, and of various colours mixed together, in the pretentious caps which she wore at home.
As soon as she saw her husband she got up, and said, as she kissed him:
“Did you remember Potin, my dear?”
He fell into a chair, in consternation, for that was the fourth time he had forgotten a commission that he had promised to do for her.
“It is a fatality,” he said; “in spite of my thinking of it all day long, I am sure to forget it in the evening.”
But as he seemed really so very sorry, she merely said, quietly:
“You will think of it tomorrow, I daresay. Anything fresh at the office?”
“Yes, a great piece of news: another tinman has been appointed senior chief clerk.” She became angry.
“To what department?”
“The department of Foreign Supplies.”
“So he succeeds Ramon. That was the very post that I wanted you to have. And what about Ramon?”
“He retires on his pension.”
She grew furious, her cap slid down on her shoulder, and she continued:
“There is nothing more to be done in that hole now. And what is the name of the new commissioner?”
“Bonassot.”
She took up the Naval Year Book, which she always kept close at hand, and looked him up:
“ ‘Bonassot—Toulon. Born in 1851. Student-Commissioner in 1871. Sub-Commissioner in 1875.’
Has he been to sea?” she continued, and at that question Caravan’s looks cleared up, and he laughed until his sides shook.
“Just like Balin—just like Balin, his chief.” Then he added an old office joke, and laughed more than ever:
“It would not even do to send them by water to inspect the Point-du-Four, for they would be sick on the Seine steamboats.”
But she remained as serious as if she had not heard him, and then she said in a low voice, while she scratched her chin:
“If only we had a deputy to fall back upon. When the Chamber hears all that is going on at the Admiralty, the minister will be turned out—”
She was interrupted by a terrible noise on the stairs. Marie-Louise and Philippe-Auguste, who had just come in from the gutter, were giving each other slaps all the way upstairs. Their mother rushed at them furiously, and taking each of them by an arm, she dragged them into the room, shaking them vigorously. But as soon as they saw their father, they rushed up to him. He kissed them affectionately, and taking one of them on each knee, he began to talk to them.
Philippe-Auguste was an ugly, ill-kempt little brat, dirty from head to foot, with the face of an idiot, and Marie-Louise was already like her mother—spoke like her, repeated her words, and even imitated her movements. She also asked him whether there was anything fresh at the office, and he replied merrily:
“Your friend, Ramon, who comes and dines here every Sunday, is going to leave us, little one. There is a new senior head-clerk.”
She looked at her father, and with a precocious child’s pity, she said:
“So somebody has been put over your head again!”
He stopped laughing and did not reply. Then, in order to create a diversion, he said, addressing his wife, who was cleaning the windows:
“How is mamma, up there?”
Madame Caravan left off rubbing, turned round, pulled her cap up, as it had fallen quite on to her back, and said, with trembling lips:
“Ah! yes; let us talk about your mother. She has created a pretty
