.

He is a young man, refined and distinguished, who impresses by his
innate elegance. Yet he is an invalid, tormented by abscesses. One
never sees him but his neck is swollen, or his wrists enlarged by a
ghastly outcrop. But the sickly body encloses bright and sane
intelligence. I admire him because he is thoughtful and full of ideas,
and can express himself faultlessly. Recently he gave me a lesson in
sociology, touching the links between the France of to-day and the
France of tradition, a lesson on our origins whose plain perspicuity
was a revelation to me. I seek his company; I strive to imitate him,
and certainly he is not aware how much influence he has over me.

All are attentive while he says that he is thinking of organizing a
young people's association in Viviers. Then he speaks to me, "The
farther I go the more I perceive that all men are afflicted with short
sight. They do not see, nor can they see, beyond the end of their
noses."

"Yes," say I.

My reply seems rather scanty, and the silence which follows repeats it
mercilessly. It seems so to him, too, no doubt, for he engages other
interlocutors, and I feel myself redden in the darkness of Brisbille's
cavern.

Crillon is arguing with Brisbille on the matter of the recent
renovation of an old hat, which they keep handing to each other and
examine ardently. Crillon is sitting, but he keeps his eyes on it.
Heart and soul he applies himself to the debate. His humble trade as a
botcher does not allow a fixed tariff, and he is all alone as he
vindicates the value of his work. With his fists he hammers the
gray-striped mealy cloth on his knees, and the hair, which grows
thickly round his big neck, gives him the nape of a wild boar.

"That felt," he complains, "I'll tell you what was the matter with it.
It was rain, heavy rain, that had drowned it. That felt, I tells you,
was only like a dirty handkerchief. What does _that_ represent--in
ebullition of steam, in gumming, and the passage of time?"

Monsieur Justin Pocard is talking to three companions, who, hat in
hand, are listening with all their ears. He is entertaining them in
his sonorous language about the great financial and industrial
combination which he has planned. A speculative thrill electrifies the
company.

"That'll brush business up!" says Crillon, in wonder, torn for a moment
from contemplation of the hat, but promptly relapsing on it.

Joseph Boneas says to me, in an und