The two women could not bear to think of him lying sick in a room no better than a dog-kennel, without broths and tisanes, lonely and sorrowful.

They hastened to nurse him, and when he got well, what he thought the great object of his life was reached.

He and his adored were married (1743).[16] As has been said, "Choice in marriage is a great match of cajolery between purpose and invisible hazard: deep criticism of a game of pure chance is time wasted." In Diderot's case destiny was hostile.
His wife was over thirty.

She was dutiful, sage, and pious.

She had plenty of that devotion which in small things women so seldom lack.
While her husband went to dine out, she remained at home to dine and sup on dry bread, and was pleased to think that the next day she would double the little ordinary for him.