rgundian. The practitioner was not red, he was scarlet. His face, like
certain tropical portions of the globe, was fissured, here and there,
with small extinct volcanoes, defined by flat and greenish patches which
Fourchon called, not unpoetically, the "flowers of wine." This fiery
face, the features of which were swelled out of shape by continual
drunkenness, looked cyclopic; for it was lighted on the right side by a
gleaming eye, and darkened on the other by a yellow patch over the left
orb. Red hair, always tousled, and a beard like that of Judas, made
Vermichel as formidable in appearance as he was meek in reality. His
prominent nose looked like an interrogation-mark, to which the wide-slit
mouth seemed to be always answering, even when it did not open.
Vermichel, a short man, wore hob-nail shoes, bottle-green velveteen
trousers, an old waistcoat patched with diverse stuffs which seemed
to have been originally made of a counterpane, a jacket of coarse blue
cloth and a gray hat with a broad brim. All this luxury, required by the
town of Soulanges where Vermichel fulfilled the combined functions of
porter at the town-hall, drummer, jailer, musician, and practitioner,
was taken care of by Madame Vermichel, an alarming antagonist of
Rabelaisian philosophy. This virago with moustachios, about one yard in
width and one hundred and twenty kilograms in weight (but very active),
ruled Vermichel with a rod of iron. Thrashed by her when drunk, he
allowed her to thrash him still when sober; which caused Pere Fourchon
to say, with a sniff at Vermichel's clothes, "It is the livery of a
slave."

"Talk of the sun and you'll see its beams," cried Fourchon, repeating a
well-worn allusion to the rutilant face of Vermichel, which really did
resemble those copper suns painted on tavern signs in the provinces.
"Has Mam Vermichel spied too much dust on your back, that you're running
away from your four-fifths,--for I can't call her your better half, that
woman! What brings you here at this hour, drum-major?"

"Politics, always politics," replied Vermichel, who seemed accustomed to
such pleasantries.

"Ah! business is bad in Blangy, and there'll be notes to protest, and
writs to issue," remarked Pere Fourchon, filling a glass for his friend.

"That APE of ours is right behind me," replied Vermichel, with a
backward gesture.

In workmen's slang "ape" meant master. The word belonged to the
dictionary of the worthy pair.

"What's Monsi