And, as, in answer to his question, I tell him that Monsieur has gone hunting, that Madame has gone to town, and that Joseph has gone on an errand, he takes from the wheelbarrow each of the stones, each bit of the _débris_, and, one after another, throws them into the garden, crying in a loud voice: "There, pig! Take that, you wretch!" The stones fly, the bits of _débris_ fall upon a freshly-worked bed, where Joseph the day before had planted peas. "Take that! And this, too! And here is another, in the bargain!" The bed, soon covered with _débris_, becomes a confused heap. The captain's joy finds expression in a sort of hooting and disorderly gestures. Then, turning up his old grey moustache, he says to me, with a triumphant and rakish air: "Mademoiselle Célestine, you are a fine girl, for sure! You must come and see me, when Rose is no longer here, eh? Ah! that's an idea!" Well, indeed! He has no cheek! VIII _October 28._ At last I have received a letter from Monsieur Jean. It is very dry, this letter. From reading it, one would think that there never had been any intimacy between us. Not a word of friendship, not a particle of tenderness, not a recollection! He tells me only of himself. If he is to be believed, it seems that Jean has become an important personage. That is to be seen and felt from the patronizing and somewhat contemptuous air which he assumes toward me at the beginning of his letter. In short, he writes to me only to astonish me. I always knew that he was vain,--indeed, he was such a handsome fellow!--but I never realized it so much as to-day. Men cannot stand success or glory.