me at the point nearest the cemetery on our way back.'
'Very well,' rejoined the boatman; 'fifteen sous,' and began to pull lustily.
'Allez, I'll pay you well,' said Madame.
'Fifteen sous is the fare,' insisted the man.
'Give me a pleasant row, and I'll give you a hundred,' said Hortense.
Her companion said nothing. He evidently wished to appear not to have heard her remark. Silence was probably the most dignified manner of receiving a promise too munificent to be anything but a jest.
For some time this silence was maintained, broken only by the trickling of the oars and the sounds from the neighboring shores and vessels. Madame Bernier was plunged in a sidelong scrutiny of her ferryman's countenance. He was a man of about thirty-five. His face was dogged, brutal, and sullen. These indications were perhaps exaggerated by the dull monotony of his exercise. The eyes lacked a certain rascally gleam which had appeared in them when he was so empressé with the offer of his services. The face was better then—that is, if vice is better than ignorance. We say a countenance is 'lit up' by a smile; and indeed that momentary flicker does the office of a candle in a dark room. It sheds a ray upon the dim upholstery of our souls. The visages of poor men, generally, know few alternations. There is a large class of human beings whom fortune restricts to a single change of expression, or, perhaps, rather to a single expression. Ah me! the faces which wear either nakedness or rags; whose repose is stagnation, whose activity vice; ingorant at their worst, infamous at their best!
'Don't pull too hard,' said Hortense at last. 'Hadn't you better take breath a moment?'
'Madame is very good,' said the man, leaning upon his oars. 'But if you had taken me by the hour,' he added, with a return of the vicious grin, 'you wouldn't catch me loitering.'
'I suppose you work very hard,' said Madame Bernier.
The man gave a little toss of his head, as if to intimate the inadequacy of any supposition to grasp the extent of his labors.
'I've been up since four o'clock this morning, wheeling bales and boxes on the quay, and plying my little boat. Sweating without five minutes' intermission. C'est comme ça. Sometimes I tell my mate I think I'll take a plunge in the basin to dry myself. Ha! ha! ha!'
'And of course you gain little,' said Madame Bernier.
'Worse than nothing. Just what will keep me fat enough for starvation to feed on.'
'How? you go without your necessary food?'
'Necessary is a very elastic word, madame. You can narrow it down, so that in the degree above nothing it means luxury. My necessary food is sometimes thin air. If I don't deprive myself of that, it's because I can't.'
'Is it possible to be so unfortunate?'
'Shall I tell you what I have eaten to-day?'
'Do,' said Madame Bernier.
'A piece of black bread and a salt herring are all that have passed my lips for twelve hours.'
'Why don't you get some better work?'
'If I should die to-night,' pursued the boatman, heedless of the question, in the manner of a man whose impetus on the track of self-pity drives him past the signal flags of relief, 'what would there be left to bury me? These clothes I have on might buy me a long box. For the cost of this shabby old suit, that hasn't lasted me a twelvemonth, I could get one that I wouldn't wear out in a thousand years. La bonne idée!'
'Why don't you get some work that pays better?' repeated Hortense.
The man dipped his oars again.
