brood for hours on his wrongs, filled with a slow,
fundamental anger.
He had not believed it, the big stupid peasant,
he had not believed that his honest brown hands
would be scarcely able to earn him a living, that his
honest brown oak and his sweet-smelling pine would
lie idle against the walls of his workshop, that a life
spent in ceaseless labour and thrift could result in so
galling a poverty, might even result in stark destitution.
No, not until Marie had wept had he believed — her
tears had washed away his illusions. So now there
had come that slow, fundamental anger, and at times
his resentful eyes would grow bloodshot, while his
face would be stained by an ominous flush that grew
deeper with every deep swallow of wine — the strong,
comforting wine from the vineyards of Provence.
'Marioun, fetch more wine. ... I am tired to-
night; but yes, at my age a man needs support. Did
you hear me, Marie? I said fetch more wine!' And
sick at heart his wife must obey him.
He would sit with his chin resting on his left hand,
the hair of his beard spraying out through his fingers.
His right hand would be slowly fingering the glass
which every few moments he raised to his lips, and
the liquor would fan his anger to flame, augmenting
his bitter sense of injustice:
'Marioun, he will starve us, that Anatole Kahn;
he will starve us craftily, little by little. And they
help him to do it, our friends, Marioun — may God
send the lot of them down to hell!—they buy the man's
filth because it is cheaper. Houi, the good truthful
oak, the fine oak, there it lies despised, spat upon,
Marioun — a great pile of it lying despised near my
work-bench! He has come here to snatch the very
bread from our mouths, to ruin the old and honour-
able trade that I learnt from my father in this very
Jaouse, that he learnt in this very house from his
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