as a man retained physical vigour, but when aches
and pains came to stiffen the joints and the lumbar
muscles then it was that most men acquired much
more respect for the world's opinion.
Madame Roustan occasionally visited Marie, but
these visits of hers were extremely unwelcome. She
had always managed to thrive upon woe, and just now
she had more than enough to thrive on. She would
sit there dilating upon the stroke that had prematurely
removed her own husband:
'Ai! las/ she would sigh, 'he died at his post like
a soldier, he was actually measuring ribbon. I myself
was behind the desk counting change when I suddenly
heard a sound like a gurgle. Ah, bon Dieu, what had
happened? A gurgle I heard, and there was my
Geoffroi lying flat on his stomach across the counter
with his head hanging down. His face was as red as
the ribbon in his hand. . . . I distinctly recall that the
ribbon was red . . . red satin at one franc fifty
the metre/ And from this she would go on to give
all the details of poor Monsieur Roustan's post-
mortem appearance: of the manner in which they
adjusted his jaw and combed his beard and parted
his hair; and of how they had not liked to keep him
too long before screwing him down, because of the
thunder. In the end she would always say much the same
thing: 'Mais, ma cherie, I am thankful Geoffroi was
taken. It is surely a million times better to die than
to linger on in a living death.' A truth that her
listener would find far from cheering.
Sometimes Jouse would thump the floor with the
stick which they always put on the bed beside him,
and hearing this Madame Roustan would go, but
dolefully as though leaving a funeral.
'Eh bien,' Jouse would say when his wife appeared,
'has she plucked the eyes from the dead man's carcase?
Never mind, Marioun, you are rid of her at last.'
365