drinking-room that he might hear what was said and talk to his friends,
for his head was quite clear although his enormous body was helplessly
inert. It was hoped at first that his immense legs would regain some
degree of power; but this hope soon disappeared, and Toine spent his days
and nights in the bed, which was only made up once a week, with the help
of four neighbors who lifted the innkeeper, each holding a limb, while
his mattress was turned.

He kept his spirits, nevertheless; but his gaiety was of a different
kind--more timid, more humble; and he lived in a constant, childlike
fear of his wife, who grumbled from morning till night:

"Look at him there--the great glutton! the good-for-nothing
creature, the old boozer! Serve him right, serve him right!"

He no longer answered her. He contented himself with winking behind the
old woman's back, and turning over on his other side--the only
movement of which he was now capable. He called this exercise a "tack to
the north" or a "tack to the south."

His great distraction nowadays was to listen to the conversations in the
bar, and to shout through the wall when he recognized a friend's voice:

"Hallo, my son-in-law! Is that you, Celestin?"

And Celestin Maloisel answered:

"Yes, it's me, Toine. Are you getting about again yet, old fellow?"

"Not exactly getting about," answered Toine. "But I haven't grown thin;