ovincial manners
and morals obscured, little by little, the rays of this fallen
Sardanapalus; these vestiges of his former luxury now produced the
effect of a glass chandelier in a barn. Harmony, that bond of all work,
human or divine, was lacking in great things as well as in little ones.
The stairs, up which everybody mounted without wiping their feet, were
never polished; the walls, painted by some wretched artisan of the
neighborhood, were a terror to the eye; the stone mantel-piece,
ill-carved, "swore" with the handsome clock, which was further degraded
by the company of contemptible candlesticks. Like the period which
du Bousquier himself represented, the house was a jumble of dirt and
magnificence. Being considered a man of leisure, du Bousquier led the
same parasite life as the chevalier; and he who does not spend his
income is always rich. His only servant was a sort of Jocrisse, a lad of
the neighborhood, rather a ninny, trained slowly and with difficulty to
du Bousquier's requirements. His master had taught him, as he might an
orang-outang, to rub the floors, dust the furniture, black his boots,
brush his coats, and bring a lantern to guide him home at night if
the weather were cloudy, and clogs if it rained. Like many other human
beings, this lad hadn't stuff enough in him for more than one vice; he
was a glutton. Often, when du Bousquier went to a grand dinner, he would
take Rene to wait at table; on such occasions he made him take off his
blue cotton jacket, with its big pockets hanging round his hips, and
always bulging with handkerchiefs, clasp-knives, fruits, or a handful of
nuts, and forced him to put on a regulation coat. Rene would then stuff
his fill with the other servants. This duty, which du Bousquier had
turned into a reward, won him the most absolute discretion from the
Breton servant.

"You here, mademoiselle!" said Rene to Suzanne when she entered;
"'t'isn't your day. We haven't any linen for the wash, tell Madame
Lardot."

"Old stupid!" said Suzanne, laughing.

The pretty girl went upstairs, leaving Rene to finish his porringer of
buckwheat in boiled milk. Du Bousquier, still in bed, was revolving in
his mind his plans of fortune; for ambition was all that was left
to him, as to other men who have sucked dry the orange of pleasure.
Ambition and play are inexhaustible; in a well-organized man the
passions which proceed from the brain will always survive the passions
of the heart.

"Here