let loose from the asylum, running in the night to avenge himself,
setting fire to his house in which four persons were burned. But these
were old stories and Macquart, settled down now, was no longer the
redoubtable scoundrel who had made all the family tremble. He led a
perfectly correct life; he was a wily diplomat, and he had retained
nothing of his air of jeering at the world but his bantering smile.

"Uncle is at home," said Pascal, as they approached the house.

This was one of those Provencal structures of a single story, with
discolored tiles and four walls washed with a bright yellow. Before
the facade extended a narrow terrace shaded by ancient mulberry trees,
whose thick, gnarled branches drooped down, forming an arbor. It was
here that Uncle Macquart smoked his pipe in the cool shade, in summer.
And on hearing the sound of the carriage, he came and stood at the
edge of the terrace, straightening his tall form neatly clad in blue
cloth, his head covered with the eternal fur cap which he wore from
one year's end to the other.

As soon as he recognized his visitors, he called out with a sneer:

"Oh, here come some fine company! How kind of you; you are out for an
airing."

But the presence of Maxime puzzled him. Who was he? Whom had he come
to see? They mentioned his name to him, and he immediately cut short
the explanations they were adding, to enable him to straighten out the
tangled skein of relationship.

"The father of Charles--I know, I know! The son of my nephew Saccard,