Or-"In spite of the laws against vagabondage, the approaches to our great

towns continue to be infected by bands of beggars. Some are seen going

about alone, and these are not, perhaps, the least dangerous. What are

our ediles about?"

Then Homais invented anecdotes-"Yesterday, by the Bois-Guillaume hill, a skittish horse--" And then

followed the story of an accident caused by the presence of the blind

man.

He managed so well that the fellow was locked up. But he was released.

He began again, and Homais began again. It was a struggle. Homais won

it, for his foe was condemned to life-long confinement in an asylum.

This success emboldened him, and henceforth there was no longer a dog

run over, a barn burnt down, a woman beaten in the parish, of which

he did not immediately inform the public, guided always by the love of

progress and the hate of priests. He instituted comparisons between the

elementary and clerical schools to the detriment of the latter; called

to mind the massacre of St. Bartholomew a propos of a grant of one

hundred francs to the church, and denounced abuses, aired new views.

That was his phrase. Homais was digging and delving; he was becoming

dangerous.

However, he was stifling in the narrow limits of journalism, and soon a

book, a work was necessary to him. Then he composed "General Statistics

of the Canton of Yonville, followed by Climatological Remarks." The

statistics drove him to philosophy. He busied himself with great

questions: the social problem, moralisation of the poorer classes,

pisciculture, caoutchouc, railways, etc. He even began to blush at being

a bourgeois. He affected the artistic style, he smoked. He bought two

chic Pompadour statuettes to adorn his drawing-room.

He by no means gave up his shop. On the contrary, he kept well abreast

of new discoveries. He followed the great movement of chocolates; he

was the first to introduce "cocoa" and "revalenta" into the

Seine-Inferieure. He was enthusiastic about the hydro-electric

Pulvermacher chains; he wore one himself, and when at night he took off

his flannel vest, Madame Homais stood quite dazzled before the golden

spiral beneath which he was hidden, and felt her ardour redouble for

this man more bandaged than a Scythian, and splendid as one of the Magi.

He had fine ideas about Emma's tomb. First he proposed a broken column

with some drapery, next a pyramid, then a Temple of Vesta, a sort of

rotunda, or else a "mass of ruins." And in all his plans Homais always

stuck to the weeping willow, which he looked upon as the indispensable

symbol of sorrow.




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