accumulating in his bosom. All this gathering is detaining him at
home, and he is tormented by the desire for drink. He cannot conceal
his vinous longing, and squints darkly at the assembly. On a week day
at this hour he would already have begun to slake his thirst. He is
parched, he burns, he drags himself from group to group. The wait is
longer than he can stand.

Suddenly every one looks out to the street through the still open door.

A carriage is making its way towards the church; it has a green body
and silver lamps. The old coachman, whose great glove sways the
slender scepter of a whip, is so adorned with overlapping capes that he
suggests several men on the top of each other. The black horse is
prancing.

"He shines like a piano," says Benoît.

The Baroness is in the carriage. The blinds are drawn, so she cannot
be seen, but every one salutes the carriage.

"All slaves!" mumbles Brisbille. "Look at yourselves now, just look!
All the lot of you, as soon as a rich old woman goes by, there you are,
poking your noses into the ground, showing your bald heads, and growing
humpbacked."

"She does good," protests one of the gathering.

"Good? Ah, yes, indeed!" gurgles the evil man, writhing as though in
the grip of some one; "I call it ostentation--that's what _I_ call it."