Séraphin felt relief when he eventually reached the dairy where fresh air circulated, mixed with the wholesome smell of milk. Neither was he upset by the fact that he was late, and that he was alone with the dairyman whom he held in high regard because of his discretion, his good financial practices and his great love of money. Both of them despised the poor and those in debt. Like Séraphin, M. Brassard was a hoarder who talked only about dollars, favours and services rendered; and he systematically cheated on weighing the milk and fat. But he had never swindled the miser. He admired him too much, and above all he knew that Poudrier calculated the price and value of his milk in advance. Afraid of his perceptiveness and control, he regarded him as a brother. So they didn't have any secrets from one another. Indeed, Brassard preferred dealing with Poudrier than with his cousin, who was often preoccupied with women and loads of other things, which he found annoying.
"We understand each other," he was in the habit of saying to his friend.

This morning, as usual, he showed great interest when he saw him arrive.
"Have you had an accident, M. Poudrier?"
"Oh no. I thought Alexis was coming and perhaps I waited a little too long."
Then, placing the two milk churns on the scales, he said, "You know, M. Brassard, that accidents don't happen to the likes of us, eh?"
"You're quite right, M. Poudrier. Now, is this milk still from your two Jerseys?"
"Absolutely, M. Brassard. Absolutely. It's rich, eh?"
"The richest in the parish, M. Poudrier. Take a look at this."
And the dairyman let him read a piece of paper with a table of the fat content paid to various producers in the region.
"You can see," he added, "that you're at the top. Always at the top."
"I know, I know," replied the miser. "It's well known that Jerseys are the best in the world. And they're in my care, without a doubt."
And the two friends looked at each other as if they alone were aware of this fact. After a moment, the dairyman said in a low voice, "Now tell me, M. Poudrier, has Lemont ever offered to pay you the loan and recover his cows?"
"Never. What's more, now it's too late. A deal's a deal. Don't you agree, M. Brassard?"
"You're right. And then you know, I've no pity for people like that, who do what he did in that barn. Everyone pays for his sins, right?"
Poudrier raised his hand as if to uphold so sound a judgement. He moved towards the door, but turned back.
"Listen, M. Brassard, is it true that Destreilles has inherited his aunt's money?"
"Too true, M. Poudrier, too true. How lucky can you get?"
"That's good to know."
Once more he walked to the door. He stopped a moment, then turning, said, "Do you know anyone who might need a thousand dollar loan at eight percent, fully guaranteed?"
"No, not at the moment, M. Poudrier. But don't make the mistake of lending your money at only eight percent. That's too risky"
"I understand, M. Brassard. It's not for me. It's someone I know who has this to lend. As for me, the money I took out of the construction company I immediately deposited in Montreal. It's in different hands, that's all. Like that, monsieur, like that." And the miser snapped his fingers, like two bones.
"Ah, you're always the same, M. Poudrier," said Brassard. "You have a keen nose."
"Like a fox," replied Séraphin with a wry smile.
And he whipped his horse which set off down the little hill at a trot.

He thought about the conversation he had just had. He realised that he had lied to Brassard about the loan money, that he had lied about the withdrawal to his only friend, that he was afraid of everyone, and that the anxiety he was suffering was growing in an alarming manner.
"After all," he said to excuse himself, "I don't make my confession to Brassard. And he must hide little things like this from me too."
He spurred on his horse, and began muttering to himself. The animal walked up the long hill. She stopped once or twice to catch her breath. It was already eleven o'clock by the sun. It was hot, and a golden dust rose from the path. In the distance he could see thick yellow smoke rising from the foot of the gullies or sprawling like clouds on the tops of the small hills.
"The planters are setting fire to the felled areas," he thought. "The government shouldn't allow it when the weather is as dry as it is now."
And he recalled the fires of the previous year which had devoured entire forests, the flames licking over the meadows and demolishing barns throughout the district.
"If a fire takes hold this year all the land around here will be destroyed."
He reached the house. Before entering the yard he took one last look at the horizon, where mile after mile of dense yellow smoke could be seen. Poudrier heaved a long sigh.

He took his time unharnessing the horse. It was hot, and the leather purse hampered his movements.
As he watered the animals he found that he too was thirsty and hungry. For two or three days he had hurriedly eaten, with no appetite, a few buckwheat pancakes with a little molasses and some water. Today there was nothing to stop him making a big pot of his excellent soup, which would last a week, maybe more.
So he went to stow away the four thousand seven hundred and fifty seven dollars in a sack of oats, and, in order that he would have nothing to worry about while he was working around the house, he took the trouble to pour out several buckets of grain. Then he placed the purse almost at the bottom of the sack, and covered it with oats.
"Now," he thought, "if someone wants the money they will have to take the whole sack. That's a lot of trouble for a thief."
Then he locked the door and went down to the kitchen to prepare the soup.
He made a fierce fire which he then damped down with some wet logs he had found in the shed.
He went outside, remaining a long time standing on the doorstep, looking out on his land without seeing it.
He thought, "I'm stupid making myself ill. Look, who could rob me? Who would possibly want to do me any harm? No, I'm thinking about it too much. I'm behind with my work. Everything's behind. Everything's going to the dogs. It's time I faced up to it and stopped letting myself be worn down by my imagination. So, this afternoon, I'll put some manure on the garden. There, in front of the house there won't be any danger. I'll be able to see everything that happens. Then I have to chop some wood."

He returned to the kitchen. The soup was simmering gently, giving off a horrible smell. He went out again. The heat was crushing the dandelions on the slopes of the hills, and the young grass, bending towards the south, was a sign that rain was coming. Sitting on the steps Séraphin sharpened his axe. He could still hear the song of the waterfalls, and from time to time the thud of a log plunging over the edge.
"It's bound to rain before the end of the afternoon. But it's odd, I can hardly hear the logs any more. Maybe they're coming to an end, or else there's a huge jam in the rapids."
And Séraphin continued to sharpen his axe, with the motions of a man who was conserving his time, his whetstone, or his axe. Then he went inside to have a look at the stove. He was hungry. The soup was still simmering and still smelt horrible. No matter, Séraphin was not going to wait any longer.
"My stomach's empty," he said.
He dipped a bowl into the pot and took some of the pale broth in which floated brown strings and gristle entwined like handfuls of worms. Leaning on the sideboard he stood dipping buckwheat pancakes rolled like big cigars into the soup, and wolfed them down greedily. And so as not to waste a single drop of the soup, he drank straight out of the bowl. But he was still hungry.
"Well, I can always have a second helping. I don't do that often."
He dipped the bowl into the pot again. The soup was thicker now, and the bad smell seemed to have gone. After a long search in the cupboard, the sideboard, everywhere, he finally found under an upturned plate, a piece of dry bread, hard as wood, which had been mouldering in the shade for six months. With his dirty fingers he dipped it in the soup, where it dissolved into a fine dust the colour of chalk. He gave it a stir and drank it eagerly like a man dying of thirst.
"That's better. That was good!," he sighed.
And he licked his thin lips from which still hung a piece of twisted gristle.

Then he washed the bowl and spoon. He put some logs on the stove because the soup was not quite done, and went to sit in the doorway. Seated with his head leaning on the doorframe, his legs spread open, his hands crossed over his stomach, he warmed himself in the sun. Despite himself he closed his eyes and let himself fall gently into a doze for several minutes. Then he felt a great urge to sleep, and made an effort to get up.
"I'm wasting time," he said. "I've got wood to chop."