What I does, I does." Suddenly a sonorous tramp persists and repeats itself in the roadway, and a shape of uncertain equilibrium emerges and advances towards us by fits and starts; a shape that clings to itself and is impelled by a force stronger than itself.

It is Brisbille, the blacksmith, drunk, as usual.
Espying us, Brisbille utters exclamations.

When he has reached us he hesitates, and then, smitten by a sudden idea, he comes to a standstill, his boots clanking on the stones, as if he were a cart.

He measures the height of the curb with his eye, but clenches his fists, swallows what he wanted to say, and goes off reeling, with an odor of hatred and wine, and his face slashed with red patches.
"That anarchist!" said Crillon, in disgust; "loathsome notions, now, aren't they?
Ah! who'll rid us of him and his alcoholytes ?" he adds, as he offers me his hand.

"Good-night.