Mame comes in. She sits on a stool to get her breath again, all the
while brandishing the twisted key which she clasps to the prayer-book
in her hand. Then she unburdens herself and begins to speak in fits
and starts of this key, of the mishap which twisted it, and of all the
multiple details which overlap each other in her head. But the
slipshod, gloomy smith's attention is suddenly attracted by the hole
which shows the street.

"The lubber!" he roars.

It is Monsieur Fontan who is passing, the wine-merchant and
café-proprietor. He is an expansive and imposing man, fat-covered, and
white as a house. He never says anything and is always alone. A great
personage he is; he makes money; he has amassed hundreds of thousands
of francs. At noon and in the evening he is not to be seen, having
dived into the room behind the shop, where he takes his meals in
solitude. The rest of the time he just sits at the receipt of custom
and says nothing. There 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