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is a hole in his counter where he slides the money
in. His house is filling with money from morning till night.
"He's a money-trap," says Mame.
"He's rich," I say.
"And when you've said that," jeers Brisbille, "you've said all there is to
say. Why, you damned snob, you're only a poor drudge, like all us
chaps, but haven't you just got the snob's ideas?"
I make a sign of impatience. It is not true, and Brisbille annoys me with
the hatred which he hurls at random, hit or miss; and all the more
because he is himself visibly impressed by the approach of this man
who is richer than the rest. The rebel opens his steely eye and relapses
into silence, like the rest of us, as the big person grows bigger.
"The Bonéas are even richer," my aunt murmurs.
Monsieur Fontan passes the open door, and we can hear the breathing
of the corpulent recluse. As soon as he has carried away the enormous
overcoat that sheathes him, like the hide of a pachyderm, and is
disappearing, Brisbille begins to roar, "What a snout! Did you see it, eh?
Did you see the jaws he swings from his ears, eh? The exact likeness of
a hog!"
Then he adds, in a burst of vulgar delight, "Luckily, we can expect it'll
all burst before long!"
He laughs alone. Mame goes and sits apart. She detests Brisbille, who
is the personification of envy, malice and coarseness. And everybody
hates this marionette, too, for his drunkenness and his forward notions.
All the same, when there is something you want him to do, you choose
Sunday morning to call, and you linger there, knowing that you will
meet others. This has become a tradition.

"They're going to cure little Antoinette," says Benoît, as he frames
himself in the doorway.
Benoît is like a newspaper. He to whom nothing ever happens only
lives to announce what is happening to others.
"I know," cries Mame, "they told me so this morning. Several people
already knew it this morning at seven. A big, famous doctor's coming
to the castle itself, for the hunting, and he only treats just the eyes."
"Poor little angel!" sighs a woman, who has just come in.
Brisbille intervenes, rancorous and quarrelsome, "Yes, they're always
going to cure the child, so they say. Bad luck to them! Who cares about
her?"
"Everybody does!" reply two incensed women, in the same breath.
"And meanwhile," said Brisbille, viciously, "she's snuffing it." And he
chews, once more, his customary saying--pompous and foolish as the
catchword of a public meeting--"She's a victim of society!"
Monsieur Joseph Bonéas has come into Brisbille's, and he does it
complacently, for he is not above mixing with the people of the
neighborhood. Here, too, are Monsieur Pocard, and Crillon, new
shaved, his polished skin taut and shiny, and several other people.
Prominent among them one marks the wavering head of Monsieur
Mielvaque, who, in his timidity and careful respect for custom, took his
hat off as he crossed the threshold. He is only a copying-clerk at the
factory; he wears much-used and dubious linen, and a frail and
orphaned jacket which he dons for all occasions.
Monsieur Joseph Bonéas overawes me. My eyes are attracted by his
delicate profile, the dull gloom of his morning attire, and the luster of
his black gloves, which are holding a little black rectangle, gilt-edged.
He, too, has removed his hat. So I, in my corner discreetly remove
mine, too.

He is a young man, refined and distinguished, who impresses by his
innate elegance. Yet he is an invalid, tormented by abscesses. One
never sees him but his neck is swollen, or his wrists enlarged by a
ghastly outcrop. But the sickly body encloses bright and sane
intelligence. I admire him because he is thoughtful and full of ideas,
and can express himself faultlessly. Recently he gave me a lesson in
sociology, touching the links between the France of to-day and the
France of tradition, a lesson on our origins whose plain perspicuity was
a revelation to me. I seek his company; I strive to imitate him, and
certainly he is not aware how much influence he has over me.
All are attentive while he says that he is thinking of organizing a young
people's association in Viviers. Then he speaks to me, "The farther I go
the more I perceive that all men are afflicted with short sight. They do
not see, nor can they see, beyond the end of their noses."
"Yes," say I.
My reply seems rather scanty, and the silence which follows repeats it
mercilessly. It seems so to him, too, no doubt, for he engages other
interlocutors, and I feel myself redden in the darkness of Brisbille's
cavern.
Crillon