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Suddenly I stopped.

One of these personal pictures had caught my eye by its domestic and charming simplicity.

She looked so happy and peaceful in her quiet little room, the dear old lady in her black gown and widow’s cap, leaning back in an easy-chair covered with green Utrecht velvet, and sitting quietly with her hands folded on her lap. Everything around her was so old and simple, and seemed to have been preserved, less through a wise economy than on account of hallowed memories, since the honey-moon with monsieur of the high complexion, in a frock-coat and flowered waistcoat, whose oval crayon ornamented the wall. By two lamps on the mantle-shelf every detail of the old-fashioned furniture could be distinguished, from the clock on a fish of artificial and painted marble to the old and antiquated piano, on which, without doubt, as a young girl, in leg-of-mutton sleeves and with hair dressed a la Grecque, she had played the airs of Romagnesi.

Certainly a loved and only daughter, remaining unmarried through her affection for her mother, piously watched over the last years of the widow. It was she, I was sure, who had so tenderly placed her dear mother; she who had put the ottoman under her feet, she who had put near her the inlaid table, and arranged on it the waiter and two cups. I expected already to see her coming in carrying the evening coffee–the sweet, calm girl, who should be dressed in mourning like the widow, and resemble her very much.

Absorbed by the contemplation of a scene so sympathetic, and by the pleasure of imagining that humble poem, I remained standing some steps from the open window, sure of not being noticed in the dusky street, when I saw a door open and there appeared–oh, how far he was from my thoughts at that moment–my friend Meurtrier himself, the formidable hero of tilts on the river and frays in unknown places.

A sudden doubt crossed me. I felt that I was on the point of discovering a mystery.

It was indeed he. His terrible hairy hand held a tiny silver coffee-pot, and he was followed by a poodle which greatly embarrassed his steps–a valiant and classic poodle, the poodle of blind clarionet-players, a poor beggar’s poodle, a poodle clipped like a lion, with hairy ruffles on his four paws, and a white mustache like a general of the Gymnase.

“Mamma,” said the giant, in a tone of ineffable tenderness, “here is your coffee. I am sure that you will find it nice to-night. The water was boiling well, and I poured it on drop by drop.”

“Thank you,” said the old lady, rolling her easy-chair to the table with an air; “thank you, my little Achille. Your dear father said many a time that there was not my equal at making coffee–he was so kind and indulgent, the dear, good man–but I begin to believe that you are even better than I.”

At that moment, and while Meurtrier was pouring out the coffee with all the delicacy of a young girl, the poodle, excited no doubt by the uncovered sugar, placed his forepaws on the lap of his mistress.

“Down, Medor,” she cried, with a benevolent indignation. “Did any one ever see such a troublesome animal? Look here, sir! you know very well that your master never fails to give you the last of his cup. By-the-way,” added the widow, addressing her son, “you have taken the poor fellow out, have you not?”

“Certainly, mamma,” he replied, in a tone that was almost infantile. “I have just been to the creamery for your morning milk, and I put the leash and collar on Medor and took him with me.”

“And he has attended to all his little wants?”

“Don’t be disturbed. He doesn’t want anything.”

Reassured on this point, important to canine hygiene, the good dame drank her coffee, between her son and her dog, who each regarded her with an inexpressible tenderness.

It was assuredly unnecessary to see or hear more. I had already descried what a peaceful family life–upright, pure, and devoted–my friend Meurtrier hid under his chimerical gasconades. But the spectacle with which chance had favored me was at once so droll and so touching that I could not resist the temptation to watch for some moments longer. That indiscretion sufficed to show me the whole truth.

Yes, this type of roisterers, who seemed to have stepped from one of the romances of Paul de Kock–this athlete, this despot of bar-rooms and public-houses–performed simply and courageously, in these lowly rooms in the suburbs, the sublime duties of a sister of charity. This intrepid oarsman had never made a longer voyage than to conduct his mother to mass or vespers every Sunday. This billiard expert knew only how to play bezique. This trainer of bull-dogs was the submissive slave of a poodle. This Mauvaise-Philibert was an Antigone.

III.

The next morning, on arriving at the office, I asked Meurtrier how he had employed the previous evening, and he instantly improvised, without a moment’s hesitation, an account of a sharp encounter on the boulevard at two in the morning, when he had knocked down with a single blow of his fist, having passed his thumb through the ring of his keys, a terrible street rough. I listened, smiling ironically, and thinking to confound him; but remembering how respectable a virtue is which is hidden even under an absurdity, I struck him amicably on the shoulder, and said, with conviction:

“Meurtrier, you are a hero!”