and resumed the reading of his documents, his head in his hands and his
fingers in his ears.

The two others conversed by his side, first in undertones, then louder,
for M. Chebe's shrill, piercing voice could not long be subdued.--He
wasn't old enough to be buried, deuce take it!--He should have died of
ennui at Montrouge.--What he must have was the bustle and life of the Rue
de Mail or the Rue du Sentier--of the business districts.

"Yes, but a shop? Why a shop?" Risler timidly ventured to ask.

"Why a shop?--why a shop?" repeated M. Chebe, red as an Easter egg, and
raising his voice to its highest pitch. "Why, because I'm a merchant,
Monsieur Risler, a merchant and son of a merchant. Oh! I see what
you're coming at. I have no business. But whose fault is it? If the
people who shut me up at Montrouge, at the gates of Bicetre, like a
paralytic, had had the good sense to furnish me with the money to start
in business--"

At that point Risler succeeded in silencing him, and thereafter only
snatches of the conversation could be heard: "a more convenient shop--
high ceilings--better air--future plans--enormous business--I will speak
when the time comes--many people will be astonished."

As he caught these fragments of sentences, Delobelle became more and more
absorbed in his estimates, presenting the eloquent back of the man who is
not listening. Risler, sorely perplexed, slowly sipped his beer from
time to time to keep himself, in countenance.

At last, when M. Chebe had grown calm, and with good reason, his son-in-