Sophie seized the doctor's hands; large tears stood in her eyes, and
she could only stammer:

"Oh, M. Pascal!"

How they loved him! And Clotilde felt her affection for him increase,
seeing the affection of all these people for him. They remained
chatting there for a few moments longer, in the salubrious shade of
the green oaks. Then they took the road back to Plassans, having still
another visit to make.

This was to a tavern, that stood at the crossing of two roads and was
white with the flying dust. A steam mill had recently been established
opposite, utilizing the old buildings of Le Paradou, an estate dating
from the last century, and Lafouasse, the tavern keeper, still carried
on his little business, thanks to the workmen at the mill and to the
peasants who brought their corn to it. He had still for customers on
Sundays the few inhabitants of Les Artauds, a neighboring hamlet. But
misfortune had struck him; for the last three years he had been
dragging himself about groaning with rheumatism, in which the doctor
had finally recognized the beginning of ataxia. But he had obstinately
refused to take a servant, persisting in waiting on his customers
himself, holding on by the furniture. So that once more firm on his
feet, after a dozen punctures, he already proclaimed his cure
everywhere.

He chanced to be just then at his door, and looked strong and
vigorous, with his tall figure, fiery face, and fiery red hair.