Marie was not intelligent, nor perhaps terribly good, but she was obliging in the way the poor are, who understand the necessity of mutual help. Friendship seems to take for them the form of quotidian small change. One should be grateful for the smallest token of kindness, and that is why I speak of Marie. She had authority over no one; she liked, I think, to have it over me. She advised me how to dress warmly or how to light my fire, and she busied herself by doing a lot of useful little things in my room. I cannot really say that Marie reminded me of my sisters, and yet I found in her all those sweet feminine movements I had loved as a child. One could see that she was trying hard to have good manners, and that in itself is laudable. Marie thought she loved music; she truly did love it: unhappily, she had execrable taste. It was a bad taste that was almost touching in its innocence. The most stereotyped sentiments seemed to her the most beautiful. One might say that her soul was content, as she herself was, with cheap imitation jewelry. Marie was capable of lying with the utmost sincerity. I suppose she lived, like most women, in some imaginary existence where she was better and happier than in real life. For example, if I had asked her, she would have sworn that she had never had lovers; she would have wept if I had not believed her. In the depths of herself she kept the memory of a childhood spent in the country, in the most virtuous circumstances, and also the memory of some vague fiancé. She also had other memories she did not speak of. The memory of women is like those old-fashioned sewing tables they have. There are secret drawers; there are others, shut so long that they cannot be opened. There are dried flowers in them which have become nothing more than the dust of roses, some entangled skeins, here and there some pins. Marie’s memory was very serviceable: she used it to embroider her past.

I visited her in the evening once the cold weather began and I was afraid to remain alone. Our conversation was certainly dull, but there is something soothing for those who secretly torment themselves in listening to a woman speak about unimportant things. Marie was lazy; it did not surprise her that I worked so little. I have nothing of the fairy-tale prince about me. I was unaware that women, especially when they are poor, often think they have met the hero of their dreams even when the resemblance is hopelessly remote. My situation, and possibly my name, had for Marie a storybook prestige that I did not realize. To be sure, I was always extremely reserved toward her; she was flattered by that at the beginning, as by a sort of refinement she was not accustomed to. I did not guess what she was thinking as she sewed in silence; I merely thought that she liked me; and then, too, certain ideas simply did not occur to me.