Wednesday,' recurring every week and
interrupting his industrious and methodical labours, may easily be
conceived. He had come to hate the rubber of floor, a man from his
own country, with a face as yellow, close, and hard as his own cake
of beeswax. He hated Teyssedre, who, proud of coming from Riom, while
'Meuchieu Achtier came only from Chauvagnat,' had no scruple in pushing
about the heavy table covered with pamphlets, notes, and reports, and
hunted the illustrious victim from room to room till he was driven to
seek refuge in a kind of pigeon-hole over the study, where, though not
a big man, he must sit for want of room to get up. This lumber-closet,
which was furnished with an old damask chair, an aged card-table and a
stand of drawers, looked out on the courtyard through the upper circle
of the great window belonging to the room below. Through this opening,
much resembling the low glass door of an orangery, the travailing
historian might be seen from head to foot, miserably doubled up like
Cardinal La Balue in his cage. It was here that he was sitting one
morning with his eyes upon an ancient scrawl, having been already
expelled from the lower room by the bang-bang-bang of Teyssedre, when he
heard the sound of the front door bell.

'Is that you, Fage?' asked the Academician in his deep and resonant
bass.

'No, _Meuchieu Achtier_. It is the young gentleman.'

On Wednesday mornings the polisher opened the door, because Corentine
was dressing her mistress.

'How's _The Master?_' cried Paul Astier, hurrying by to his mother's
room. The Academician did not answer. His son's habit of using
ironically a title generally bestowed upon him as a compliment was
always offensive to him.

'M. Fage is to be shown up as soon as he comes,' he said, not addressing
himself directly to the polisher.

'Yes, _Meuchieu Achtier_.' And the bang-bang-bang began again.

'Good morning, mamma.'

'Why, it's Paul! Come in. Mind the folds, Corentine.'

Madame Astier was putting on a skirt before the looking-glass. She was
tall, slender, and still good-looking in spite of her worn features and
her too delicate skin. She did not move, but held out to him a cheek
with a velvet surface of powder. He touched it with his fair pointed
beard. The son was as little demonstrative as the mother.

'Will M. Paul stay to breakfast?' asked Corentine. She was a stout
countrywoman of an oily complexion, pitted with smallpox. She was
sitting on the c