orks and of glasses and I cried:

"Hallo, Marambot!"

A door opened and a large man, with whiskers and a cross look on his
face, appeared, carrying a dinner napkin in his hand.

I certainly should not have recognized him. One would have said he was
forty-five at least, and, in a second, all the provincial life which
makes one grow heavy, dull and old came before me. In a single flash of
thought, quicker than the act of extending my hand to him, I could see
his life, his manner of existence, his line of thought and his theories
of things in general. I guessed at the prolonged meals that had rounded
out his stomach, his after-dinner naps from the torpor of a slow
indigestion aided by cognac, and his vague glances cast on the patient
while he thought of the chicken that was roasting before the fire. His
conversations about cooking, about cider, brandy and wine, the way of
preparing certain dishes and of blending certain sauces were revealed to
me at sight of his puffy red cheeks, his heavy lips and his lustreless
eyes.

"You do not recognize me. I am Raoul Aubertin," I said.

He opened his arms and gave me such a hug that I thought he would choke
me.

"You have not breakfasted, have you?"

"No."

"How fortunate! I was just sitting down to table and I have an excellent
trout."

Five minutes later I was sitting opposite him at breakfast. I said:

"Are you a bachelor?"

"Yes, indeed."

"And do you like it here?"

"Time does not hang heavy; I am busy. I have patients and friends. I eat
well, have good health, enjoy laughing and shooting. I get along."

"Is not life very monotonous in this little town?"

"No, my dear boy, not when one knows how to fill in the time. A little
town, in fact, is like a large one. The incidents and amusements are less
varied, but one makes more of them; one has fewer acquaintances, but one
meets them more frequently. When you know all the windows in a street,
each one of them interests you and puzzles you more than a whole street
in Paris.

"A little town is very amusing, you know, very amusing, very amusing.
Why, take Gisors. I know it at the tips of my fingers, from its beginning
up to the present time. You have no idea what queer history it has."

"Do you belong to Gisors?"

"I? No. I come from Gournay, its neighbor and rival. Gournay is to Gisors
what Lucullus was to Cicero. Here, everything is for glory; they say 'the
proud people of Gisors.' At Gournay, everything is fo