Beauchene had sunk upon a chair: "Ah! my dear fellow, I'm worn out," he
continued; "I dined in town last night; I got to bed only at one o'clock.
And there was a terrible lot of work waiting for me this morning. One
positively needs to be made of iron."

Until a short time before he had shown himself a prodigious worker,
endowed with really marvellous energy and strength. Moreover, he had
given proof of unfailing business instinct with regard to many profitable
undertakings. Invariably the first to appear at the works, he looked
after everything, foresaw everything, filling the place with his bustling
zeal, and doubling his output year by year. Recently, however, fatigue
had been gaining ground on him. He had always sought plenty of amusement,
even amid the hard-working life he led. But nowadays certain "sprees," as
he called them, left him fairly exhausted.

He gazed at Mathieu: "You seem fit enough, you do!" he said. "How is it
that you manage never to look tired?"

As a matter of fact, the young man who stood there erect before his
drawing-table seemed possessed of the sturdy health of a young oak tree.
Tall and slender, he had the broad, lofty, tower-like brow of the
Froments. He wore his thick hair cut quite short, and his beard, which
curled slightly, in a point. But the chief expression of his face rested
in his eyes, which were at once deep and bright, keen and thoughtful, and
almost invariably illumined by a smile. They showed him to be at once a
man of thought and of action, very simple, very gay, and of a kindly
disposition.

"Oh! I," he answered with a laugh, "I behave reasonably."