He had a burly shopkeeping stomach--nothing but stomach--in
which the rest of his body seemed to have got stowed away; the flabby
paunch of men who spend their lives sitting, and who have neither
thighs, nor chest, nor arms, nor neck; the seat of their chairs having
accumulated all their substance in one spot. Beausire, on the
contrary, though short and stout, was as tight as an egg and as hard
as a cannon-ball.

Mme. Roland had not emptied her glass and was gazing at her son Jean
with sparkling eyes, happiness had brought a color to her cheeks.

In him too the fullness of joy had now blazed out. It was a settled
thing, signed and sealed; he had twenty thousand francs a year. In the
sound of his laugh, in the fuller voice with which he spoke, in his
way of looking at the others, his more positive manners, his greater
confidence, the assurance given by money was at once perceptible.

Dinner was announced, and as the old man was about to offer his arm to
Mme. Rosemilly, his wife exclaimed:

"No, no, father. Everything is for Jean to-day."

Unwonted luxury graced the table. In front of Jean, who sat in his
father's place, an enormous bouquet of flowers intermingled with
ribbon favors--a bouquet for a really great occasion--stood up like a
cupola dressed with flags, and was flanked by four high dishes, one
containing a pyramid of splendid peaches; the second, a monumental
cake gorged with whipped cream and covered with pinnacles of sugar--a
cathedral in confectionery; the third, slices of pine-apple floating
in clear syrup; and the fourth unheard-of lavishness--black grapes
brought from the warmer south.

"The devil!" exclaimed Pierre as he sat down. "We are celebrating the
accession of Jean the Rich."

After the soup, Madeira was passed round, and already every one was
talking at once. Beausire was giving the history of a dinner he had
eaten at San Domingo at the table of a negro general. Old Roland was
listening, and at the same time trying to get in, between the
sentences, his account of another dinner, given by a friend of his at
Mendon, after which every guest was ill for a fortnight. Mme.
Rosemilly, Jean, and his mother were planning an excursion to
breakfast at Saint Jouin, from which they promised themselves the
greatest pleasure; and Pierre was only sorry that he had not dined
alone in some pot-house by the sea, so as to escape all this noise and
laughter and glee which fretted him. He was wondering how he