I am beginning to know Monsieur well. They were right in saying that he is an excellent and generous man, for, if he were not, there would not be in the world a worse rascal, a more perfect sharper. The need, the passion that he feels for being charitable, impel him to do things that are not very admirable. His intention is praiseworthy, but the result upon others is often disastrous, all the same. It must be confessed that his kindness has been the cause of dirty little tricks, like the following: Last Tuesday a very simple old man, father Pantois, brought some sweet-briers that Monsieur had ordered,--of course without Madame's knowledge. It was toward the end of the day. I had come down for some hot water for a belated bath. Madame, who had gone to town, had not yet returned. And I was chattering in the kitchen with Marianne, when Monsieur, cordial, joyous, unreserved, and noisy, brought in father Pantois. He immediately had him served with bread, cheese, and cider. And then he began to talk with him. The good man excited my pity, so worn, thin, and dirtily clad was he. His pantaloons were in rags; his cap was a mass of filth. And his open shirt revealed a part of his bare breast, chapped, crimped, seasoned like old leather. He ate greedily. "Well, father Pantois," cried Monsieur, rubbing his hands, "that goes better, eh?" The old man, with his mouth full, thanked him. "You are very good, Monsieur Lanlaire. Because, you see, since this morning, at four o'clock, when I left home, I have put nothing in my stomach,--nothing at all." "Well, eat away, father Pantois. Regale yourself, while you are about it." "You are very good, Monsieur Lanlaire. Pray excuse me." The old man cut off enormous pieces of bread, which he was a long time in chewing, for he had no teeth left. When he was partially satisfied, Monsieur asked him: "And the sweet-briers, father Pantois? They are fine this year, eh?" "There are some that are fine; there are some that are not so fine; there are almost all sorts, Monsieur Lanlaire. Indeed, one can scarcely choose. And they are hard to pull up, you can believe. And besides, Monsieur Porcellet will not let us take them from his woods any more. We have to go a long way now to find them, a very long way. If I were to tell you that I come from the forest of Raillon,--more than three leagues from here? Yes, indeed, Monsieur Lanlaire." While the good man was talking, Monsieur had taken a seat at the table beside him. Gay, almost uproarious, he slapped him on the shoulder, and exclaimed: "Five leagues! you are a jolly good one, father Pantois. Always strong, always young." "Not so much as that, Monsieur Lanlaire; not so much as that." "Nonsense!" insisted Monsieur, "strong as an old Turk,--and good-humored, yes, indeed! They don't make any more like you these days, father Pantois. You are of the old school, you are." The old man shook his head, his gaunt head, of the color of old wood, and repeated: