In fifteen years' time, by prodigious efforts of will and energy, Madame
Desvarennes had made her way from the lonely and muddy Rue Neuve-
Coquenard to the mansion in the Rue Saint-Dominique. Of the bakery there
was no longer question. It was some time since the business in the Rue
Vivienne had been transferred to the foreman of the shop. The flour
trade alone occupied Madame Desvarennes's attention. She ruled the
prices in the market; and great bankers came to her office and did
business with her on a footing of equality. She did not become any
prouder for it, she knew too well the strength and weakness of life to
have pride; her former plain dealing had not stiffened into self-
sufficiency. Such as one had known her when beginning business, such one
found her in the zenith of her fortune. Instead of a woollen gown she
wore a silk one, but the color was still black; her language had not
become refined; she retained the same blunt familiar accent, and at the
end of five minutes' conversation with any one of importance she could
not resist calling him "my dear," to come morally near him. Her commands
had more fulness. In giving her orders, she had the manner of a
commander-in-chief, and it was useless to haggle when she had spoken.
The best thing to do was to obey, as well and as promptly as possible.

Placed in a political sphere, this marvellously gifted woman would have
been a Madame Roland; born to the throne, she would have been a Catherine
II.; there was genius in her. Sprung from the lower ranks, her
superiority had given her wealth; had she come from the higher, the great
mind might have governed the world.

Still she was not happy; she had been married fifteen years, and her
fireside was devoid of a cradle. During the first years she had rejoiced
at not having a child. Where could she have found time to occupy herself
with a baby? Business engrossed her attention; she had no leisure to