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very top of the rue Julien Lacroix, where the houses were tightly squeezed one against the other. There were long and narrow courtyards, cobbled with small sharp stones. They had moved there while they were still betrothed. A friend had helped them find a single room on the first floor, already furnished with an iron bed, a second-hand mattress, and a small, green-enamelled gas oven.

On a Sunday afternoon, when Morris and Gertrude had come to look at their new home, the two had stood staring about them with open mouths. The contrast between the bright light of the outdoors and dimness of the room left them speechless. They stood hand in hand until their eyes became accustomed to the darkness. Then they saw the bed and the red-covered mattress. They sat down together, then they lay down, and when they arose at last, somewhat ashamed and yet filled with a new ecstasy, they went out and the next day were formally and legally wedded.

They would come to their room every day after work, put up shelves and arrange the bargains they managed to buy on the stalls of the Flea Market. This had an aroma of romance but soon enough their idyllic life together took on a new aspect. A baby came. Gertrude gave up working; she spent her days sunning the baby in the park, attending to the housework, and keeping a watchful eye on the family budget.

As soon as the baby was old enough to be left at a kindergarten, Gertrude began to look for work. She was anxious to move into a brighter apartment, with at least a separate kitchen. She was eager, too, to get a few pieces of furniture, a much needed overcoat for Morris and a few toys for the child.

She kept looking-until her waistline thickened and started to grow round again. Then the second baby came. Gertrude