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half-smile, partly shame, partly pity, because it was not a man’s work that Désiré was forcing himself to do just then.
    The fire had not been alight for long in the stove. Its heat could be felt emerging in little waves into the cold of the morning; if you looked hard, you could even see a battle raging: the waves of warm, then hot air emanating from the stove collided, just beyond the table, with a belt of icy air which, all night long, had hung in front of the black panes of glass of the windows. A fire in the morning, especially very early in the morning, when you get up at an unaccustomed hour, does not smell the same as at other times of the day; it does not make the same noise either. The flames are brighter too, as Élise had often noticed.
    And now, all of a sudden, it was as if the japanned iron had become distended, as if a guardian spirit inside had awoken and expanded to explode with a joyful ‘boom’.
    Every morning this happened. And every morning there was a thin rain of pink ash, followed shortly afterwards by the singing of the water in the kettle.
    It was barely six o’clock. Out in the street they had heard only one person’s footsteps, and that unknown passer-by had probably looked up inquiringly at the only lighted windows in the street. Through the window-panes nothing could be seen, not even the glow of the gas-lamps, but it was obviously pouring down, for a continuous gurgling could be heard going up and down the rain-spouts. Now and then there was a gust of wind, which showed itself by a sudden draught in the chimney and a shower of ashes falling in the tray at the bottom of the stove.
    â€˜Dear God, Désiré …’
    She had not dared to say: ‘Poor Désiré’. She was ashamed of lying there, motionless, in the bedroom, with the communicating door wide open. She was even more ashamed of the natural serenity, the glowing gaiety emanating from Désiré while he was doing the housework. Over his dark suit, he had tied a woman’s apron, a little cotton apron in a faded blue check, adorned with a flounce; not caring how ridiculous he looked, he had used some safety-pins to fasten the straps, which were too short, to his shoulders.
    Now and then, holding a bucket in each hand, he went down to the entresol, so quietly that she could not hear him brushing past the wall, nor the metallic noise the bucket handle always made, and could only just make out the gentle flow of water from the tap.
    He had decided to scrub the floor, for a lot of people had come the day before, and since it had been raining, they had left dirt all over the place. That Saturday had been a different day from all the rest, one of those days which leave only a confused memory: Valérie, who had asked for the day off, had not left Élise’s side; Maria Debeurre had come along during the lunch-hour, followed by Désiré’s sisters and his brother Arthur, a gay, boisterous fellow, who was forever cracking jokes, and who had insisted on offering a drink to the clerk at the Town Hall.
    Madame Cession must have been furious about all this coming and going on the stairs, and the people on the first floor had kept their door firmly shut.
    Everything was clean now. It was funny how men twisted dish-cloths the wrong way round, from the left to the right!
    It was Sunday. That was why, while the hands of the alarm-clock went on moving, nothing could be heard outside but the timid summons of church bells ringing for the early Masses.
    â€˜Leave it, Désiré … Valérie will see to it …’
    But no! Désiré had heated some water. It was he who had washed the nappies and hung them to dry on the cord over the stove. He had remembered to cover the floor, which stayed wet a long time, with the faded floral chintz which she used to put down on Saturdays to keep it clean. He had thought of everything. For instance, following Élise’s example, he had