The acquaintanceship ripened. It was not only their common grievances
against fate and Madame la Proprietaire: they were linked by the sheer
physical fact that each was the only person to whom the other could
talk without the morbid consciousness of an eye scrutinising the
unseemly brown wig. It became quite natural, therefore, for Madame
Depine to stroll into her "Princess's" room, and they soon slid into
dividing the cost of the fire. That was more than an economy, for
neither could afford a fire alone. It was an easy transition to the
discovery that coffee could be made more cheaply for two, and that
the same candle would light two persons, provided they sat in the same
room. And if they did not fall out of the habit of companionship even
at the _cremerie_, though "two portions for one" were not served,
their union at least kept the sexagenarians in countenance. Two brown
wigs give each other a moral support, are on the way to a fashion.
But there was more than wigs and cheese-parings in their
_camaraderie_. Madame Depine found a fathomless mine of edification
in Madame Valiere's reminiscences, which she skilfully extracted from
her, finding the average ore rich with noble streaks, though the old
tirewoman had an obstinate way of harking back to her girlhood, which
made some delvings result in mere earth.
On the Day of the Dead Madame Depine emerged into importance, taking
her friend with her to the Cemetery Montparnasse to see the glass
flowers blooming immortally over the graves of her husband and
children. Madame Depine paid the omnibus for both (inside places), and
felt, for once, superior to the poor "Princess," who had never known
the realities of love and death.