long and deep, locked, bolted, fastened in the wall; a coffer of which he had so often heard, and which the hands — a little wrinkled, it is true, but still not without elegance — of the procurator’s wife were about to open to his admiring looks.

And then he — a wanderer on the earth, a man without fortune, a man without family, a soldier accustomed to inns, cabarets, taverns, and restaurants, a lover of wine forced to depend upon chance treats — was about to partake of family meals, to enjoy the pleasures of a comfortable establishment, and to give himself up to those little attentions which “the harder one is, the more they please,” as old soldiers say.

To come in the capacity of a cousin, and seat himself every day at a good table; to smooth