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 There are moments when I am afraid in this atmosphere of debauchery, among all these bestial faces, heavy with alcohol and murder. But Joseph reassures me.

"That's nothing," he says. "That is good for business."

Yesterday, coming back from the market, Joseph announced, gaily rubbing his hands:

"Bad news. There is talk of a war with England."

"Oh! my God!" I cried. "Suppose Cherbourg should be bombarded?"

"Pooh! Pooh!" sneered Joseph. "Only I have thought of something; I have thought of a stroke, a rich stroke."

In spite of myself I shuddered. He must be contemplating some immense rascality.

"The more I look at you," he said, "the more I say to myself that you have not the head of a Breton. Oh! no, you have not the head of a Breton. You have rather an Alsatian head. Hey? That would make a fine show behind the bar."

I was disappointed. I thought that Joseph was going to propose some terrible thing. I was proud already at the thought of being admitted to partnership in a bold undertaking. Whenever I see him in reflective mood, my ideas are immediately inflamed. I imagine tragedies, nocturnal