Through an open square, in the ponderous and dirt-shaggy glazing of the smithy, one can see a portion of the street, and a sketch, in bright and airy tones, of scattered people.  It is like the sharply cut field of vision in an opera-glass, in which figures are drawn and shaded, and cross each other; where one makes out, at times, a hat bound and befeathered, swaying as it goes; a little boy with sky-blue tie and buttoned boots, and tubular knickers hanging round his thin, bare calves; a couple of gossiping dames in swollen and somber petticoats, who tack hither and thither, meet, are mutually attracted and dissolve in conversation, 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.