“Of what use can it be to you?” asked Goupil.
“Do you want to be notary?” replied the justice of the peace, looking severely at Dionis’s appointed successor.
“I should think so!” cried Goupil, “I have swallowed enough humiliation to arrive at being called master. I entreat you to believe, Monsieur le Juge de Paix, that the wretched head clerk called Goupil has nothing in common with master Jean-Sébastien-Marie Goupil, notary of Nemours, husband of Mademoiselle Massin. These two beings are strangers, they are not even alike! Do you not notice anything about me?”
Monsieur Bongrand then looked at Goupil’s costume and saw that he wore a white tie, a dazzling white shirt ornamented with ruby buttons, a red velvet waistcoat, trousers and coat of handsome black cloth made in Paris. He had smart boots. His hair, carefully smoothed and combed, smelt agreeable. In fact, he seemed transformed.
“The fact is, you are another man,” said Bongrand.
“In morals as well as physique, monsieur! Wisdom comes with practice; and, moreover, fortune is the source of cleanliness—”
“In morals as well as physique,” said the justice, settling his spectacles.
“Eh! monsieur, is a man with a hundred thousand crowns ever a democrat? So you may take me for an honest man that knows what delicacy is, and is disposed to love his wife,” he added as he saw
