For the time being, as Virginie behaved so nicely, she would be nice also.
In the room upstairs, Poisson, the husband, a man of thirty-five, with a cadaverous-looking countenance and carroty moustaches and beard, was seated working at a table near the window.

He was making little boxes.
His only tools were a knife, a tiny saw the size of a nail file and a pot of glue.

He was using wood from old cigar boxes, thin boards of unfinished mahogany upon which he executed fretwork and embellishments of extraordinary delicacy.

All year long he worked at making the same size boxes, only varying them occasionally by inlay work, new designs for the cover, or putting compartments inside.

He did not sell his work, he distributed it in presents to persons of his acquaintance.