It was almost a quarrel. Far below the steam-tram was puffing past.
At the window across the street a woman was beating her carpet with
swift, spasmodic thwacks, as one who knew the legal time was nearly
up. In the tragic silence which followed Madame Valière's rebuke,
these sounds acquired a curious intensity.

"I prefer to sacrifice the lottery rather than honour," she added, in
more conciliatory accents.




IX


The long quasi-Lenten weeks went by, and unflinchingly the two old
ladies pursued their pious quest of the grey wig. Butter had vanished
from their bread, and beans from their coffee. Their morning brew
was confected of charred crusts, and as they sipped it solemnly they
exchanged the reflection that it was quite equal to the coffee at the
_crémerie_. Positively one was safer drinking one's own messes. Figs,
no longer posing as a pastime of the palate, were accepted seriously
as _pièces de résistance_. The Spring was still cold, yet fires could
be left to die after breakfast. The chill had been taken off, and by
mid-day the sun was in its full power. Each sustained the other by
a desperate cheerfulness. When they took their morning walk in the
Luxembourg Gardens--what time the blue-aproned Jacques was polishing
their waxed floors with his legs for broom-handles--they went into
ecstasies over everything, drawing each other's attention to the
sky, the trees, the water. And, indeed, of a sunshiny morning it was