two pockets hidden between her gown and petticoat, and bring forth a
single well-scraped coin,--a crown of six francs, or perhaps a piece
of fifty-five sous,--which she would gaze at for a long time before
she could bring herself to change it. As a general thing the Sauviats
ate herrings, dried peas, cheese, hard eggs in salad, vegetables
seasoned in the cheapest manner. Never did they lay in provisions,
except perhaps a bunch of garlic or onions, which could not spoil and
cost but little. The small amount of wood they burned in winter they
bought of itinerant sellers day by day. By seven in winter, by nine in
summer, the household was in bed, and the shop was closed and guarded
by a huge dog, which got its living from the kitchens in the
neighborhood. Madame Sauviat used about three francs' worth of candles
in the course of the year.

The sober, toilsome life of these persons was brightened by one joy,
but that was a natural joy, and for it they made their only known
outlays. In May, 1802, Madame Sauviat gave birth to a daughter. She
was confined all alone, and went about her household work five days
later. She nursed her child in the open air, seated as usual in her
chair by the corner pillar, continuing to sell old iron while the
infant sucked. Her milk cost nothing, and she let her little daughter
feed on it for two years, neither of them being the worse for the long
nursing.

Veronique (that was the infant's name) became the handsomest child in
the Lower town, and every one who saw her stopped to look at her. The
neighbors then noticed for the first time a trace of feeling in the
old Sauviats, of which they had supposed them devoid. While the wife
cooked the dinner the husband held the little one, or rocked it to the
tune of an Auvergnat song. The workmen as they passed sometimes saw