"My heart, as you know, lies in the grave with my poor Josephine----"
"But of course, my dear friend----"
"But--man is not fit to live all alone. And I am convinced that if I
could ask her, that angel would----" He paused and looked approvingly
round the tidy, comfortable little room.
"Yes--Desire? She would----"
"I think she would--wish me to do the best I can for myself. And that,
of course--I mean to say I imagine----"
Poor Bathilde's hopes died suddenly.
"She was always so generous-minded," she murmured, folding her plump
hands.
He rose and walked to the shop door.
"Anything new to show me, _chere_ Madame Chalumeau?" he asked briskly.
"Yes; some coloured tablecloths, very pretty, at one franc
seventy-five--and--some other things. But, Desire, you were saying about
living alone--that you thought Josephine would be glad----"
"I did not say she would be glad, Madame Chalumeau. My wife was never
_glad_ about anything. I said--in fact, I may as well be quite frank,"
he continued, turning to her, "I am a lonely man, and I am--greatly
attracted to you, dear friend. But as I have told you before, I--I
cannot quite make up my mind as to whether I should be happier if I
married you.
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