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 undertone,—­and I am flattered,—­“That Pocard is a man of no education, but he has practical sense.  That’s a big idea he’s got,—­at least if he sees things as I see them.”

And I, I am thinking that if I were older or more influential in the district, perhaps I should be in the Pocard scheme, which is taking shape, and will be huge.

Meanwhile, Brisbille is scowling.  An unconfessable disquiet is accumulating in his bosom.  All this gathering is detaining him at home, and he is tormented by the desire for drink.  He cannot conceal his vinous longing, and squints darkly at the assembly.  On a week day at this hour he would already have begun to slake his thirst.  He is parched, he burns, he drags himself from group to group.  The wait is longer than he can stand.