"Then the wolves had devoured her, and the birds had built their nests
with the wool from her torn bed, and I took charge of her remains, and I
only pray that our sons may never see any wars again."




THAT PIG OF A MORIN


I

"There, my friend," I said to Labarbe, "you have just repeated those
five words, _that pig of a Morin_. Why on earth do I never hear Morin's
name mentioned without his being called _a pig_?"

Labarbe, who is a Deputy, looked at me with eyes like an owl's, and
said: "Do you mean to say that you do not know Morin's story, and you
come from La Rochelle?" I was obliged to declare that I did not know
Morin's story, and then Labarbe rubbed his hands, and began his recital.

"You knew Morin, did you not, and you remember his large linen-draper's
shop on the _Quai de la Rochelle_?" "Yes, perfectly."

"All right, then. You must know that in 1862 or 63 Morin went to spend a
fortnight in Paris for pleasure, or for his pleasures, but under the
pretext of renewing his stock, and you also know what a fortnight in
Paris means for a country shopkeeper: it makes his blood grow hot. The
theater every evening, women's dresses rustling up against you, and