k off his hat, and Simon returned
his salute and told me the man's name; no doubt to show me that he knew
all the inhabitants personally, and the thought struck me that he was
thinking of becoming a candidate for the Chamber of Deputies, that dream
of all who have buried themselves in the provinces.

We were soon out of the town, and the carriage turned into a garden,
which had some pretensions to being a park, and stopped in front of a
turretted house, which tried to pass for a chateau.

"That is my den," Simon said, so that he might be complimented on it,
and I replied that it was delightful.

A lady appeared on the steps, dressed up for a visitor, her hair done
for a visitor, and with phrases ready prepared for a visitor. She was no
longer the light haired, insipid girl I had seen in church fifteen years
previously, but a stout lady in curls and flounces, one of those ladies
without any fixed age, without intellect, without any of those things
which constitute a woman. In short, she was a mother, a stout,
commonplace mother, the human layer and brood mare, that machine of
flesh which procreates without any other mental preoccupation, except
her children and her housekeeping book.

She welcomed me, and I went into the hall, where three children, ranged
according to their height, seemed set out for review, like firemen
before a mayor, and I said: "Ah! ah! so these are the others?" And
Simon, who was radiant with pleasure, named them: "Jean, Sophie and
Gontran."

The door of the drawing-room was open. I went in and in the depths of an
easy-chair I saw something trembling, a man, an old, paralyzed man.
Madame Radevin came forward and said: "This is my grandfather,
Monsieur; he is eighty-seven." And then she shouted into the shaking old
man's ears: "This is a friend of Simon's, papa." The old gentleman tried
to say "good day" to me, and he muttered: "Oua, oua, oua," and waved his
hand, and I took a seat, saying: "You are very kind, Monsieur."

Simon had just come in, and he said with a laugh: "So! You have made
grandpapa's acquaintance. He is priceless, is that old man; he is the
delight of the children, and he is so greedy that he almost kills
himself at every meal; you have no idea what he would eat if he were
allowed to do as he pleased. But you will see, you will see. He likes
all the sweets as if they were so many girls. You have never seen
anything funnier; you will see it presently."

I was then shown to my