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