They occupied a second floor, a pretty suite of five rooms,
looking out upon a garden. Their rent was high. Indeed, they
paid fourteen hundred francs a year. But this was a burden which
Pascal's profession imposed upon him; for he, of course, required
a private office and a little waiting-room for his clients. With
this exception, the mother and son led a straightened, simple
life. Their only servant was a woman who came at seven o'clock to
do the heavy work, went home again at twelve, and did not return
again until the evening, to serve dinner. Madame Ferailleur
attended to everything, not blushing in the least when she was
compelled to open the door for some client. Besides, she could do
this without the least risk of encountering disrespect, so
imposing and dignified were her manners and her person.
M. de Coralth had shown excellent judgment when he compared her to
a family portrait. She was, in fact, exactly the person a painter
would select to represent some old burgher's wife--a chaste and
loving spouse, a devoted mother, an incomparable housewife--in one
phrase, the faithful guardian of her husband's domestic happiness.
She had just passed her fiftieth birthday, and looked fully her
age. She had suffered. A close observer would have detected
traces of weeping about her wrinkled eyelids; and the twinge of
her lips was expressive of cruel anguish, heroically endured.
Still, she was not severe, nor even too sedate; and the few
friends who visited her were often really astonished at her wit.
Pages:
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136