provincial 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 am I,” said Suzanne, sitting down on the bed and jangling the curtain-rings back along the rod with despotic vehemence.

“Quesaco, my charmer?” said the old bachelor, sitting up in bed.

“Monsieur,” said Suzanne, gravely, “you must be astonished to see me here at this hour; but I find myself in a condition which obliges me not to care for what people may say about it.”

“What does all that mean?” said du Bousquier, crossing his arms.