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pacific way.
    â€œYou must tell me what, you little shit?”
    â€œI must tell you that I’m not going to be pushed around anymore.” Sinistrat’s voice was quavering. He was breathing hard. “I’m not signing any more certificates so you can...go on cures—”
    â€œAnd in exchange for that, you think you can count on my silence?” The baron headed for the staircase. “You stupid humanist!” he cried. “You are laughable.” And the baron laughed a deliberate, forced laugh: “Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”
    He disappeared. Mortified, Sinistrat sought to save face under Aimée’s dispassionate gaze.
    â€œHe is mad,” said the doctor. “He’s completely—” He broke off. Then: “I must count on your discretion too,” he added hastily.
    Aimée shrugged, rose, and walked towards the stairs. Sinistrat followed in her footsteps, frantic. His curly hair flopped over his eyes and he tossed his head to get rid of it.
    â€œThat man is appalling,” he was saying. “He pops up everywhere without being invited, and—”
    â€œA priest! A priest!” The baron’s voice thundered up from the ground floor.
    â€œMy God!” said Sinistrat.
    With the doctor at her heels, Aimée quickly reached the bottom of the stairs. When she reentered the reception room, Baron Jules had just reached the bishop.
    â€œUgh!” he cried. “What an ugly priest he is!”
    â€œMy dear Baron, I beg you,” began the bishop. He raised a pudgy hand, shaking his head and smiling, and the baron delivered a straight right to his jaw.
    The bishop went down. Exclamations and horrified cries went up. People thrust themselves between the bishop and the baron, who was kicking at his victim and shouting that the black beetle should be left to croak. On the floor, the bishop was drooling. A very big guy in a striped suit, with a red ribbon on his lapel, a black mustache, and white teeth, grabbed the baron’s arm and put him in a half-nelson.
    â€œA cop! That’s all we need,” exclaimed the baron, stamping his heels onto the feet of the man with the mustache.
    The bishop was helped to his feet and stood shaking his head in bewilderment. Lorque plonked himself in front of Baron Jules, jowls atremble with fury, and waved his Havana at him threateningly.
    â€œYou poor old fool,” said the factory owner. “Nobody dares say it to your face, but I’ll say it: You are not welcome here, you are not invited. You think you can do whatever you like because everyone in Bléville is afraid of you. Well, I’m not afraid of you.” Lorque glanced at the man with the mustache. “Commissioner, throw this man out!”
    â€œMy pleasure,” said the commissioner.
    â€œI don’t give a fuck!” cried Baron Jules as he was hustled towards the door. “I’ll be back. I’ll be back to piss all over the place.” He broke into laughter. The commissioner and the servants threw him down the front steps. He rolled into the gutter. “I don’t give a fuck,” he cried once more. “You’re all done for.”

7
    A FTER the eviction of Baron Jules the cocktail party at Lorque’s house soon came to an end. Back in her studio apartment, after making herself a cup of tea and taking a bath, Aimée stood in front of the bathroom sink and, looking at her reflection in the mirror, spoke to herself:
    â€œWell, it’s the same as ever, isn’t it? It seems slow, but actually it is quite fast. Sex always comes up first. Then money questions. And then, last, come the old crimes. You have seen other towns, my sweet, and you’ll see others, knock on wood.” She tapped her head. In the mirror, poorly illuminated by the fluorescent lighting built into the bathroom cabinet, her white reflection likewise tapped its head without smiling. “Come on, my sweet,” she repeated,