In the neighborhood everyone nodded to them, everyone talked of their savings.
Goujet never had a hole in his clothes, always went out in a clean short blue blouse, without a stain.

He was very polite, and even a trifle timid, in spite of his broad shoulders.

The washerwomen at the end of the street laughed to see him hold down his head when he passed them.

He did not like their oaths, and thought it disgusting that women should be constantly uttering foul words.

One day, however, he came home tipsy.
Then Madame Goujet, for sole reproach, held his father's portrait before him, a daub of a painting hidden away at the bottom of a drawer; and, ever since that lesson, Goujet never drank more than was good for him, without however, any hatred of wine, for wine is necessary to the workman.