The first and best of my possessions is myself. Colas Breugnon, a good Burgundian, plain and straightforward, with a well-rounded waistcoat. I am not exactly in my first youth--fifty last birthday,--but well set-up, my teeth still good, and my sight as clear as a fish’s. My beard still sprouts vigorously, but is undoubtedly grayish, and I can’t help regretting the fair hair of my youth, and would not say no, if you offered to set my clock back twenty or thirty years. But after all ten lusters are a fine thing. The youngsters may laugh, but how many of them could have paraded up and down France as I have done, for all these years? Lord! how much sun and rain have hit this old back! I have been roasted, soaked, and warmed over dozens of times and my body, like a cracked leather sack, is full of joy and sorrow, spite and good-humor, wisdom and folly, hay and straw, figs and grapes, fruit ripe and unripe, roses and haws--what I have seen, felt and known, owned and lived, all jumbled together in the game-bag, and what fun to dive into it;--but hold on, Colas! We will go into that tomorrow, we shall never be done if we take it up today, so just now we will draw up the inventory of all property belonging to me. I own a house, a wife, four boys, and a girl (thank God she is married!), eighteen grandchildren, a gray donkey, a dog, six hens, and a pig.--So, I may be called rich. I want to look closely at these treasures, so I must put on my glasses, for, to tell the truth, the latter items exist only in memory. Wars have swept over them, soldiers of the enemy and friends too, so the pig was long ago salted down, the ass foundered, the cellar emptied, and the fowls plucked. I have the wife still, by Heavens! It is not easy to forget my happiness when I hear that squalling tongue,--she’s a fine old bird, and mine to the last feather. The whole town envies Breugnon, the old scamp. Come on then, gentlemen, speak up, if you would like to have her! She is a saving, active, sober, good woman, with all the virtues, but they do not seem to fatten her, and I must confess, fellow-sinner, that I like one plump little frailty better than all the seven bony virtues. Well, since it is the will of God, let us be good for lack of something better. Hear her rushing about; her bones seem to be everywhere. She goes poking and climbing, sulking, scolding, grumbling, growling from garret to cellar; dirt and tranquillity flee at her approach. Nearly thirty years ago we were married. Devil take me if I know why! I was smitten with another girl who jilted me, and my wife doted on me because I cared nothing for her. At that time she was small, dark and pale, with hard bright eyes which seemed to eat into me as two drops of acid burn steel; but she loved and _loved_ me fit to kill herself! Men are such fools, that by dint of running after me (through pity, vanity too, because I was tired of it all, and because I wanted to get rid of