One day, shortly after this, at the bindery, his friend Poupin was absent, and sent no explanation, as was customary in case of illness or domestic accident. There were two or three men employed in the place whose non-appearance, usually following close upon pay-day, was better unexplained, and was an implication of moral feebleness; but as a general thing Mr Crookenden’s establishment was a haunt of punctuality and sobriety. Least of all had Eustache Poupin been in the habit of asking for a margin¹. Hyacinth knew how little indulgence he had ever craved², and this was part of his admiration⁴ for the extraordinary Frenchman, an ardent⁵ stoic⁶, a cold conspirator⁷ and an exquisite⁸ artist, who was by far the most interesting person in the ranks of his acquaintance and whose conversation, in the workshop, helped him sometimes to forget the smell of leather and glue. His conversation! Hyacinth had had plenty of that, and had endeared himself to the passionate⁹ refugee – Poupin had come to England after the Commune of 1871, to escape the reprisals¹⁰ of the government of M. Thiers, and had remained there in spite of amnesties and rehabilitations – by the solemnity and candour of his attention. He was a Republican of the old-fashioned sort, of the note of 1848, humanitary and idealistic, infinitely¹¹ addicted¹² to fraternity and equality, and inexhaustibly surprised and

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