Shoulders are shrugged, and Monsieur Joseph Bonéas, always
self-controlled, smiles.

Encouraged by that smile, I say, "There have always been rich people,
and there must be."

"Of course," trumpets Crillon, "that's one of the established thoughts
that you find in your head when you fish for 'em. But mark what I
says,--there's some that dies of envy. I'm _not_ one of them that dies
of envy."

Monsieur Mielvaque has put his hat back on his petrified head and gone
to the door. Monsieur Joseph Bonéas, also, turns his back and goes
away.

All at once Crillon cries, "There's Pétrarque!" and darts outside on
the track of a big body, which, having seen him, opens its long pair of
compasses and escapes obliquely.

"And to think," says Brisbille, with a horrible grimace, when Crillon
has disappeared, "that the scamp is a town councilor! Ah, by God!"

He foams, as a wave of anger runs through him, swaying on his feet, and
gaping at the ground. Between his fingers there is a shapeless
cigarette, damp and shaggy, which he rolls in all directions, patching
up and resticking it unceasingly.

Charged with snarls and bristling with shoulder-shrugs, the smith
rushes at his fire and pulls the bellows-chain, his yawning shoes
making him limp like Vulcan. At each pull the bellows send spouting