Old Bosc had never budged an inch--he was totally indifferent.

That sort of thing no longer interested him now.

He was stroking a great tortoise-shell cat which was lying curled up on the bench.

He did so quite beautifully and ended by taking her in his arms with the tender good nature becoming a worn-out monarch.

The cat arched its back and then, after a prolonged sniff at the big white beard, the gluey odor of which doubtless disgusted her, she turned and, curling herself up, went to sleep again on the bench beside him.