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The Delobelles never receive calls. The mother, who has turned her head, thinks at first that some one has come from the shop to get the week's work. "My husband has just gone to your place, Monsieur. We have nothing here. Monsieur Delobelle has taken everything." The man comes forward without speaking, and as he approaches the window his features can be distinguished.
At last, in the Marais, he suddenly took courage: "Listen to me, Sidonie I love you!" That night the Delobelles had sat up very late. It was the habit of those brave-hearted women to make their working-day as long as possible, to prolong it so far into the night that their lamp was among the last to be extinguished on the quiet Rue de Braque.
The Chebes were like people living in a blind alley; the Delobelles on a foul little street, where there was no light or air, but where a great boulevard might some day be laid out. And then, too, Madame Chebe no longer believed in her husband, whereas, by virtue of that single magic word, "Art!" her neighbor never had doubted hers.
It was the same room in which he had lived so long with his brother. He recognized the map fastened to the wall by four pins, the window on the landing, and the Delobelles' little sign: 'Birds and Insects for Ornament. Their door was ajar; he had only to push it a little in order to enter the room.
The lover in his despair always went to the Delobelles to confide his sorrows, but he never noticed how quickly Desiree rose as soon as he entered, to make room for him by her side at the work-takle, and how she at once sat down again, with cheeks as red as fire and shining eyes. For some days past they had ceased to work at birds and insects for ornament.
The Chebes were like people living in a blind alley; the Delobelles on a foul little street, where there was no light or air, but where a great boulevard might some day be laid out. And then, too, Madame Chebe no longer believed in her husband, whereas, by virtue of that single magic word, "Art!" her neighbor never had doubted hers.
That step had cut short the frequent invasions of Monsieur Chebe and his long frock-coat, and the endless visits of good Madame Chebe, in whom the return of comfortable circumstances had revived former habits of gossip and of indolence. Sidonie would have been very glad to rid herself of the Delobelles in the same way, for their proximity annoyed her.
The lover in his despair always went to the Delobelles to confide his sorrows, but he never noticed how quickly Desiree rose as soon as he entered, to make room for him by her side at the work-takle, and how she at once sat down again, with cheeks as red as fire and shining eyes. For some days past they had ceased to work at birds and insects for ornament.
The Delobelles' door was often open, disclosing a large room with a brick floor, where two women, mother and daughter, the latter almost a child, each as weary and as pale as the other, worked at one of the thousand fanciful little trades which go to make up what is called the 'Articles de Paris'.
The Delobelles never receive calls. The mother, who has turned her head, thinks at first that some one has come from the shop to get the week's work. "My husband has just gone to your place, Monsieur. We have nothing here. Monsieur Delobelle has taken everything." The man comes forward without speaking, and as he approaches the window his features can be distinguished.
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