Mr. Plantat, whose career had been one of unbroken prosperity,
lost in the same month, his wife, whom he adored, and his two sons,
charming youths, one eighteen, the other twenty-two years old.
These successive losses crushed a man whom thirty years of happiness
left without defence against misfortune. For a long time his reason
was despaired of. Even the sight of a client, coming to trouble his
grief, to recount stupid tales of self-interest, exasperated him.
It was not surprising that he sold out his professional effects and
good-will at half price. He wished to establish himself at his ease
in his grief, with the certainty of not being disturbed in its
indulgence.

But the intensity of his mourning diminished, and the ills of
idleness came. The justiceship of the peace at Orcival was vacant,
and M. Plantat applied for and obtained it. Once installed in this
office, he suffered less from ennui. This man, who saw his life
drawing to an end, undertook to interest himself in the thousand
diverse cases which came before him. He applied to these all the
forces of a superior intelligence, the resources of a mind admirably
fitted to separate the false from the true among the lies he was
forced to hear. He persisted, besides, in living alone, despite
the urging of M. Courtois; pretending that society fatigued him,
and that an unhappy man is a bore in company.

Misfortune, which modifies characters, for good or bad, had made
him, apparently, a great egotist. He declared that he was only
interested in the affairs of life as a critic tired of its active
scenes. He loved to make a parade of his profound indifference
for everything, swearing that a rain of fire descending upon Paris,
would not even make him turn his head. To move him seemed