Besides the garret of which we have spoken, there
were two other rooms, but for some years past these had been used merely
as store-rooms for furniture. No one knew to whom the furniture
belonged, some curious speculators avowing that Plon had a child--a
girl--at school in Normandy, and had collected it as part of her dowry;
others that some mysterious tie of gratitude bound him to the owner.
Whoever was right or wrong, the rooms remained closed and unlet.
The garret itself was inhabited by a young widow, whose story was
sufficiently sad. She was the daughter of a farmer in the north of
France, and married to a glazier, Jean Didier by name, with whom she had
come to Paris in search of work. If there had been no war, and, above
all, no Commune, things might have gone well with the young couple, but,
unhappily, one followed the other, and there was an end of peace. Jean
was no fool, but he was too certain that he was extremely wise not to
make mistakes, and he possessed enough of the French nature to be easily
influenced by the brag and fine promises which filled the air at that
time. It is always satisfactory to reflect on changes which assure us
the highest step of a ladder, which ordinarily takes a life-time for a
step. Jean talked a great deal about it, not only to Marie, who would
have been safe, but to others who agreed with him more thoroughly, and
were dangerous.
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