Madame Homais was very fond of these small, heavy turban-shaped loaves, that are eaten in Lent with salt butter; a last vestige of Gothic food that goes back, perhaps, to the time of the Crusades, and with which the robust Normans gorged themselves of yore, fancying they saw on the table, in the light of the yellow torches, between tankards of hippocras and huge boars’ heads, the heads of Saracens to be devoured. The druggist’s wife crunched them up as they had done—heroically, despite her wretched teeth. And so whenever Homais journeyed to town, he never failed to bring her home some that he bought at the great baker’s in the Rue Massacre.
“Charmed to see you,” he said, offering Emma a hand to help her into the Hirondelle. Then he hung up his cheminots to the cords of the netting, and remained bareheaded in an attitude pensive and Napoleonic.
But when the blind man appeared as usual at the foot of the hill he exclaimed—
“I can’t understand why the authorities tolerate such culpable industries. Such unfortunates should be locked up and forced to work. Progress, my word! creeps at a snail’s pace. We are floundering about in mere barbarism.”
The blind man held out his hat, that flapped about at the door, as if it were a bag in the lining that had come unnailed.
“This,” said the chemist, “is a scrofulous affection.”
And though he knew the poor devil, he pretended to see him for the first time, murmured something about “cornea,” “opaque cornea,” “sclerotic,” “facies,” then asked him in a paternal tone—
“My friend, have you long had this terrible infirmity? Instead of getting drunk at the public, you’d do better to die yourself.”