There is a hole in his counter where he slides the money in.

His house is filling with money from morning till night.
"He's a money-trap," says Mame.
"He's rich," I say.
"And when you've said that," jeers Brisbille, "you've said all there is to say.

Why, you damned snob, you're only a poor drudge, like all us chaps, but haven't you just got the snob's ideas ?" I make a sign of impatience.

It is not true, and Brisbille annoys me with the hatred which he hurls at random, hit or miss; and all the more because he is himself visibly impressed by the approach of this man who is richer than the rest.

The rebel opens his steely eye and relapses into silence, like the rest of us, as the big person grows bigger.
"The Boneas are even richer," my aunt murmurs.
Monsieur Fontan passes the open door, and we can hear the breathing of the corpulent recluse.