From twelve to two the
post was closed; his recreation time was precious, and no minute must
be lost. After dinner he took his coat off and did the heavy work of
the garden, under the merciless oversight of the Widow Jequier, his
sister-in-law, the cash-box ever by his side. He chatted with his tame
_corbeau_, but he never smiled. In the winter he did fretwork. On the
stroke of two he went downstairs again and disappeared into the
cramped and stuffy bureau, whose window on the street was framed by
the hanging wistaria blossoms; and at eight o'clock his day of labour
ended. He carried the cash-box up to bed at 8.15. At 8.30 his wife
followed him. From nine to five he slept.
Alone of all the little household the Widow Jequier scorned routine.
She came and went with the uncertainty of wind. Her entrances and
exits, too, were like the wind. With a scattering rush she scurried
through the years--noisy, ineffective, yet somewhere fine. Her brother
had finished his plate of soup, wiped his black moustaches
elaborately, and turned his head towards the kitchen door with the
solemn statement 'Je n'ai pas de viande,' when she descended upon the
scene like a shrill-voiced little tempest.
'Bonjour Mesdames, bonjour Mademoiselle, bonjour, bonjour,' she bowed
and smiled, washing her hands in the air; 'et comment allez-vous ce
matin?' as the little band of hungry governesses rose with one accord
and moved to take their places.
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