ation, like rolling drops of ink. In the foreground of this
colored cinema which goes by and passes again, Brisbille, the sinister,
is ranting away, as always. He is red and lurid, spotted with
freckles, his hair greasy, his voice husky. For a moment, while he
paces to and fro in his cage, dragging shapeless and gaping shoes
behind him, he speaks to me in a low voice, and close to my face, in
gusts. Brisbille can shout, but not talk; there must be a definite
pressure of anger before his resounding huskiness issues from his
throat.

Mame comes in. She sits on a stool to get her breath again, all the
while brandishing the twisted key which she clasps to the prayer-book
in her hand. Then she unburdens herself and begins to speak in fits
and starts of this key, of the mishap which twisted it, and of all the
multiple details which overlap each other in her head. But the
slipshod, gloomy smith's attention is suddenly attracted by the hole
which shows the street.

"The lubber!" he roars.

It is Monsieur Fontan who is passing, the wine-merchant and
cafe-proprietor. He is an expansive and imposing man, fat-covered, and
white as a house. He never says anything and is always alone. A great
personage he is; he makes money; he has amassed hundreds of thousands
of francs. At noon and in the evening he is not to be seen, having
dived into the room behind the shop, where he takes his meals in
solitude. The rest of the time he just sits at the receipt of custom
and says nothing. There is a hole in his counter where he slides the
money in. His house is filling with money from morning till night.

"He's a money-trap," says Mame.

"He's rich," I say.

"And when you've said that," jeers Brisbille, "you've said all there is
to say. Why, you damned snob, you're only a poor drudge, like all us
chaps, but haven't you just got the snob's ideas?"

I make a sign of impatience. It is not true, and Brisbille annoys me
with the hatred which he hurls at random, hit or miss; and all the more
because he is himself visibly impressed by the approach of this man who
is richer than the rest. The rebel opens his steely eye and relapses
into silence, like the rest of us, as the big person grows bigger.

"The Boneas are even richer," my aunt murmurs.

Monsieur Fontan passes the open door, and we can hear the breathing of
the corpulent recluse. As soon as he has carried away the enormous
overcoat that sheathes him, like the hide of