Marjolin had been found in a heap of cabbages at the Market of theInnocents. He was sleeping under the shelter of a large white-heartedone, a broad leaf of which concealed his rosy childish face It wasnever known what poverty-stricken mother had laid him there. When hewas found he was already a fine little fellow of two or three years ofage, very plump and merry, but so backward and dense that he couldscarcely stammer a few words, and only seemed able to smile. When oneof the vegetable saleswomen found him lying under the big whitecabbage she raised such a loud cry of surprise that her neighboursrushed up to see what was the matter, while the youngster, still inpetticoats, and wrapped in a scrap of old blanket, held out his armstowards her. He could not tell who his mother was, but opened his eyesin wide astonishment as he squeezed against the shoulder of a stouttripe dealer who eventually took him up. The whole market busieditself about him throughout the day. He soon recovered confidence, ateslices of bread and butter, and smiled at all the women. The stouttripe dealer kept him for a time, then a neighbour took him; and amonth later a third woman gave him shelter. When they asked him wherehis mother was, he waved his little hand with a pretty gesture whichembraced all the women present. He became the adopted child of theplace, always clinging to the skirts of one or another of the women,and always finding a corner of a bed and a share of a meal somewhere.Somehow, too, he managed to find clothes, and he even had a copper ortwo at the bottom of his ragged pockets. It was a buxom, ruddy girldealing in medicinal herbs who gave him the name of Marjolin,[*]though no one knew why.[*] Literally "Marjoram."When Marjolin was nearly four years of age, old Mother Chantemessealso happened to find a child, a little girl, lying on the footway ofthe Rue Saint Denis, near the corner of the market. Judging by thelittle one's size, she seemed to be a couple of years old, but shecould already chatter like a magpie, murdering her words in anincessant childish babble. Old Mother Chantemesse after a timegathered that her name was Cadine, and that on the previous eveningher mother had left her sitting on a doorstep, with instructions towait till she returned. The child had fallen asleep there, and did notcry. She related that she was beaten at home; and she gladly followedMother Chantemesse, seemingly quite enchanted with that huge square,where there were so many people and such piles of vegetables. MotherChantemesse, a retail dealer by trade, was a crusty but very worthywoman, approaching her sixtieth year. She was extremely fond ofchildren, and had lost three boys of her own when they were merebabies. She came to the opinion that the chit she had found "was fartoo wide awake to kick the bucket," and so she adopted her.One evening, however, as she was going off home with her right handclasping Cadine's, Marjolin came up and unceremoniously caught hold ofher left hand."Nay, my lad," said the old woman, stopping, "the place is filled.Have you left your big Therese, then? What a fickle little gadaboutyou are!"The boy gazed at her with his smiling eyes, without letting go of herhand. He looked so pretty with his curly hair that she could notresist him. "Well, come along, then, you little scamp," said she;"I'll put you to bed as well."Thus she made her appearance in the Rue au Lard, where she lived, witha child clinging to either hand. Marjolin made himself quite at homethere. When the two children proved too noisy the old woman cuffedthem, delighted to shout and worry herself, and wash the youngsters,and pack them away beneath the blankets. She had fixed them up alittle bed in an old costermonger's barrow, the wheels and shafts ofwhich had disappeared. It was like a big cradle, a trifle hard, butretaining a strong scent of the vegetables which it had long keptfresh and cool beneath a covering of damp cloths. And there, when fouryears old, Cadine and Marjolin slept locked in each other's arms.They grew up together, and were always to be seen with their armsabout one another's waist. At night time old Mother Chantemesse heardthem prattling softly. Cadine's clear treble went chattering on forhours together, while Marjolin listened with occasional expressions ofastonishment vented in a deeper tone. The girl was a mischievous youngcreature, and concocted all sorts of stories to frighten hercompanion; telling him, for instance, that she had one night seen aman, dressed all in white, looking at them and putting out a great redtongue, at the foot of the bed. Marjolin quite perspired with terror,and anxiously asked for further particulars; but the girl would thenbegin to jeer at him, and end by calling him a big donkey. At othertimes they were not so peaceably disposed, but kicked each otherbeneath the blankets. Cadine would pull up her legs, and try torestrain her laughter as Marjolin missed his aim, and sent his feetbanging against the wall. When this happened, old Madame Chantemessewas obliged to get up to put the bed-clothes straight again; and, byway of sending the children to sleep, she would administer a box onthe ear to both of them. For a long time their bed was a sort ofplayground. They carried their toys into it, and munched stolencarrots and turnips as they lay side by side. Every morning theiradopted mother was amazed at the strange things she found in the bed--pebbles, leaves, apple cores, and dolls made out of scraps of rags.When the very cold weather came, she went off to her work, leavingthem sleeping there, Cadine's black mop mingling with Marjolin's sunnycurls, and their mouths so near together that they looked as thoughthey were keeping each other warm with their breath.The room in the Rue au Lard was a big, dilapidated garret, with asingle window, the panes of which were dimmed by the rain. Thechildren would play at hide-and-seek in the tall walnut wardrobe andunderneath Mother Chantemesse's colossal bed. There were also two orthree tables in the room, and they crawled under these on all fours.They found the place a very charming playground, on account of the dimlight and the vegetables scattered about in the dark corners. Thestreet itself, too, narrow and very quiet, with a broad arcade openinginto the Rue de la Lingerie, provided them with plenty ofentertainment. The door of the house was by the side of the arcade; itwas a low door and could only be opened half way owing to the nearproximity of the greasy corkscrew staircase. The house, which had aprojecting pent roof and a bulging front, dark with damp, anddisplaying greenish drain-sinks near the windows of each floor, alsoserved as a big toy for the young couple. They spent their morningsbelow in throwing stones up into the drain-sinks, and the stonesthereupon fell down the pipes with a very merry clatter. In thusamusing themselves, however, they managed to break a couple ofwindows, and filled the drains with stones, so that MotherChantemesse, who had lived in the house for three and forty years,narrowly escaped being turned out of it.Cadine and Marjolin then directed their attention to the vans anddrays and tumbrels which were drawn up in the quiet street. Theyclambered on to the wheels, swung from the dangling chains, and larkedabout amongst the piles of boxes and hampers. Here also were the backpremises of the commission agents of the Rue de la Poterie--huge,gloomy warehouses, each day filled and emptied afresh, and affording aconstant succession of delightful hiding-places, where the youngstersburied themselves amidst the scent of dried fruits, oranges, and freshapples. When they got tired of playing in his way, they went off tojoin old Madame Chantemesse at the Market of the Innocents. Theyarrived there arm-in-arm, laughing gaily as they crossed the streetswith never the slightest fear of being run over by the endlessvehicles. They knew the pavement well, and plunged their little legsknee-deep in the vegetable refuse without ever slipping. They jeeredmerrily at any porter in heavy boots who, in stepping over anartichoke stem, fell sprawling full-length upon the ground. They werethe rosy-cheeked familiar spirits of those greasy streets. They wereto be seen everywhere.On rainy days they walked gravely beneath the shelter of a ragged oldumbrella, with which Mother Chantemesse had protected her stock-in-trade for twenty years, and sticking it up in a corner of the marketthey called it their house. On sunny days they romped to such a degreethat when evening came they were almost too tired to move. They bathedtheir feet in the fountains, dammed up the gutters, or hid themselvesbeneath piles of vegetables, and remained there prattling to eachother just as they did in bed at night. People passing some hugemountain of cos or cabbage lettuces often heard a muffled sound ofchatter coming from it. And when the green-stuff was removed, the twochildren would be discovered lying side by side on their couch ofverdure, their eyes glistening uneasily like those of birds discoveredin the depth of a thicket. As time went on, Cadine could not get alongwithout Marjolin, and Marjolin began to cry when he lost sight ofCadine. If they happened to get separated, they sought one anotherbehind the petticoats of every stallkeeper in the markets, amongst theboxes and under the cabbages. If was, indeed, chiefly under thecabbages that they grew up and learned to love each other.Marjolin was nearly eight years old, and Cadine six, when old MadameChantemesse began to reproach them for their idleness. She told themthat she would interest them in her business, and pay them a sou a dayto assist her in paring her vegetables. During the first few days thechildren displayed eager zeal; they squatted down on either side ofthe big flat basket with little knives in their hands, and worked awayenergetically. Mother Chantemesse made a specialty of paredvegetables; on her stall, covered with a strip of damp black lining,were little lots of potatoes, turnips, carrots, and white onions,arranged in pyramids of four--three at the base and one at the apex,all quite ready to be popped into the pans of dilatory housewives. Shealso had bundles duly stringed in readiness for the soup-pot--fourleeks, three carrots, a parsnip, two turnips, and a couple of springsof celery. Then there were finely cut vegetables for julienne souplaid out on squares of paper, cabbages cut into quarters, and littleheaps of tomatoes and slices of pumpkin which gleamed like red starsand golden crescents amidst the pale hues of the other vegetables.Cadine evinced much more dexterity than Marjolin, although she wasyounger. The peelings of the potatoes she pared were so thin that youcould see through them; she tied up the bundles for the soup-pot soartistically that they looked like bouquets; and she had a way ofmaking the little heaps she set up, though they contained but threecarrots or turnips, look like very big ones. The passers-by would stopand smile when she called out in her shrill childish voice: "Madame!madame! come and try me! Each little pile for two sous."She had her regular customers, and her little piles and bundles werewidely known. Old Mother Chantemesse, seated between the two children,would indulge in a silent laugh which made her bosom rise almost toher chin, at seeing them working away so seriously. She paid themtheir daily sous most faithfully. But they soon began to weary of thelittle heaps and bundles; they were growing up, and began to dream ofsome more lucrative business. Marjolin remained very childish for hisyears, and this irritated Cadine. He had no more brains than acabbage, she often said. And it was, indeed, quite useless for her todevise any plan for him to make money; he never earned any. He couldnot even do an errand satisfactorily. The girl, on the other hand, wasvery shrewd. When but eight years old she obtained employment from oneof those women who sit on a bench in the neighbourhood of the marketsprovided with a basket of lemons, and employ a troop of children to goabout selling them. Carrying the lemons in her hands and offering themat two for three sous, Cadine thrust them under every woman's nose,and ran after every passer-by. Her hands empty, she hastened back fora fresh supply. She was paid two sous for every dozen lemons that shesold, and on good days she could earn some five or six sous. Duringthe following year she hawked caps at nine sous apiece, which proved amore profitable business; only she had to keep a sharp look-out, asstreet trading of this kind is forbidden unless one be licensed.However, she scented a policeman at a distance of a hundred yards; andthe caps forthwith disappeared under her skirts, whilst she began tomunch an apple with an air of guileless innocence. Then she took toselling pastry, cakes, cherry-tarts, gingerbread, and thick yellowmaize biscuits on wicker trays. Marjolin, however, ate up nearly thewhole of her stock-in-trade. At last, when she was eleven years old,she succeeded in realising a grand idea which had long been worryingher. In a couple of months she put by four francs, bought a smallhotte,[*] and then set up as a dealer in birds' food.[*] A basket carried on the back.--Translator.It was a big affair. She got up early in the morning and purchased herstock of groundsel, millet, and bird-cake from the wholesale dealers.Then she set out on her day's work, crossing the river, andperambulating the Latin Quarter from the Rue Saint Jacques to the RueDauphine, and even to the Luxembourg. Marjolin used to accompany her,but she would not let him carry the basket. He was only fit to callout, she said; and so, in his thick, drawling voice, he would raisethe cry, "Chickweed for the little birds!"Then Cadine herself, with her flute-like voice, would start on astrange scale of notes ending in a clear, protracted alto, "Chickweedfor the little birds!"They each took one side of the road, and looked up in the air as theywalked along. In those days Marjolin wore a big scarlet waistcoatwhich hung down to his knees; it had belonged to the defunct MonsieurChantemesse, who had been a cab-driver. Cadine for her part wore awhite and blue check gown, made out of an old tartan of MadameChantemesse's. All the canaries in the garrets of the Latin Quarterknew them; and, as they passed along, repeating their cry, eachechoing the other's voice, every cage poured out a song.Cadine sold water-cress, too. "Two sous a bunch! Two sous a bunch!"And Marjolin went into the shops to offer it for sale. "Fine water-cress! Health for the body! Fine fresh water-cress!"However, the new central markets had just been erected, and the girlwould stand gazing in ecstacy at the avenue of flower stalls whichruns through the fruit pavilion. Here on either hand, from end to end,big clumps of flowers bloom as in the borders of a garden walk. It isa perfect harvest, sweet with perfume, a double hedge of blossoms,between which the girls of the neighbourhood love to walk, smiling thewhile, though almost stifled by the heavy perfume. And on the toptiers of the stalls are artificial flowers, with paper leaves, inwhich dewdrops are simulated by drops of gum; and memorial wreaths ofblack and white beads rippling with bluish reflections. Cadine's rosynostrils would dilate with feline sensuality; she would linger as longas possible in that sweet freshness, and carry as much of the perfumeaway with her as she could. When her hair bobbed under Marjolin's nosehe would remark that it smelt of pinks. She said that she had givenover using pomatum; that is was quite sufficient for her to strollthrough the flower walk in order to scent her hair. Next she began tointrigue and scheme with such success that she was engaged by one ofthe stallkeepers. And then Marjolin declared that she smelt sweet fromhead to foot. She lived in the midst of roses, lilacs, wall-flowers,and lilies of the valley; and Marjolin would playfully smell at herskirts, feign a momentary hesitation, and then exclaim, "Ah, that'slily of the valley!" Next he would sniff at her waist and bodice: "Ah,that's wall-flowers!" And at her sleeves and wrists: "Ah, that'slilac!" And at her neck, and her cheeks and lips: "Ah, but that'sroses!" he would cry. Cadine used to laugh at him, and call him a"silly stupid," and tell him to get away, because he was tickling herwith the tip of his nose. As she spoke her breath smelt of jasmine.She was verily a bouquet, full of warmth and life.She now got up at four o'clock every morning to assist her mistress inher purchases. Each day they bought armfuls of flowers from thesuburban florists, with bundles of moss, and bundles of fern fronds,and periwinkle leaves to garnish the bouquets. Cadine would gaze withamazement at the diamonds and Valenciennes worn by the daughters ofthe great gardeners of Montreuil, who came to the markets amidst theirroses.On the saints' days of popular observance, such as Saint Mary's, SaintPeter's, and Saint Joseph's days, the sale of flowers began at twoo'clock. More than a hundred thousand francs' worth of cut flowerswould be sold on the footways, and some of the retail dealers wouldmake as much as two hundred francs in a few hours. On days like thoseonly Cadine's curly locks peered over the mounds of pansies,mignonette, and marguerites. She was quite drowned and lost in theflood of flowers. Then she would spend all her time in mountingbouquets on bits of rush. In a few weeks she acquired considerableskillfulness in her business, and manifested no little originality.Her bouquets did not always please everybody, however. Sometimes theymade one smile, sometimes they alarmed the eyes. Red predominated inthem, mottled with violent tints of blue, yellow, and violet of abarbaric charm. On the mornings when she pinched Marjolin, and teasedhim till she made him cry, she made up fierce-looking bouquets,suggestive of her own bad temper, bouquets with strong rough scentsand glaring irritating colours. On other days, however, when she wassoftened by some thrill of joy or sorrow, her bouquets would assume atone of silvery grey, very soft and subdued, and delicately perfumed.Then, too, she would set roses, as sanguineous as open hearts, inlakes of snow-white pinks; arrange bunches of tawny iris that shot upin tufts of flame from foliage that seemed scared by the brilliance ofthe flowers; work elaborate designs, as complicated as those of Smyrnarugs, adding flower to flower, as on a canvas; and prepare ripplingfanlike bouquets spreading out with all the delicacy of lace. Here wasa cluster of flowers of delicious purity, there a fat nosegay,whatever one might dream of for the hand of a marchioness or a fish-wife; all the charming quaint fancies, in short, which the brain of asharp-witted child of twelve, budding into womanhood, could devise.There were only two flowers for which Cadine retained respect; whitelilac, which by the bundle of eight or ten sprays cost from fifteen totwenty francs in the winter time; and camellias, which were still morecostly, and arrived in boxes of a dozen, lying on beds of moss, andcovered with cotton wool. She handled these as delicately as thoughthey were jewels, holding her breath for fear of dimming their lustre,and fastening their short stems to springs of cane with the tenderestcare. She spoke of them with serious reverence. She told Marjolin oneday that a speckless white camellia was a very rare and exceptionallylovely thing, and, as she was making him admire one, he exclaimed:"Yes; it's pretty; but I prefer your neck, you know. It's much moresoft and transparent than the camellia, and there are some little blueand pink veins just like the pencillings on a flower." Then, drawingnear and sniffing, he murmured: "Ah! you smell of orange blossomto-day."Cadine was self-willed, and did not get on well in the position of aservant, so she ended by setting up in business on her own account. Asshe was only thirteen at the time, and could not hope for a big tradeand a stall in the flower avenue, she took to selling one-sou bunchesof violets pricked into a bed of moss in an osier tray which shecarried hanging from her neck. All day long she wandered about themarkets and their precincts with her little bit of hanging garden. Sheloved this continual stroll, which relieved the numbness of her limbsafter long hours spent, with bent knees, on a low chair, makingbouquets. She fastened her violets together with marvellous deftnessas she walked along. She counted out six or eight flowers, accordingto the season, doubled a sprig of cane in half, added a leaf, twistedsome damp thread round the whole, and broke off the thread with herstrong young teeth. The little bunches seemed to spring spontaneouslyfrom the layer of moss, so rapidly did she stick them into it.Along the footways, amidst the jostling of the street traffic, hernimble fingers were ever flowering though she gave them not a glance,but boldly scanned the shops and passers-by. Sometimes she would restin a doorway for a moment; and alongside the gutters, greasy withkitchen slops, she sat, as it were a patch of springtime, asuggestion of green woods, and purple blossoms. Her flowers stillbetokened her frame of mind, her fits of bad temper and her thrills oftenderness. Sometimes they bristled and glowered with anger amidsttheir crumpled leaves; at other times they spoke only of love andpeacefulness as they smiled in their prim collars. As Cadine passedalong, she left a sweet perfume behind her; Marjolin followed herdevoutly. From head to foot she now exhaled but one scent, and the ladrepeated that she was herself a violet, a great big violet."Do you remember the day when we went to Romainville together?" hewould say; "Romainville, where there are so many violets. The scentwas just the same. Oh! don't change again--you smell too sweetly."And she did not change again. This was her last trade. Still, sheoften neglected her osier tray to go rambling about the neighbourhood.The building of the central markets--as yet incomplete--provided bothchildren with endless opportunities for amusement. They made their wayinto the midst of the work-yards through some gap or other between theplanks; they descended into the foundations, and climbed up to thecast-iron pillars. Every nook, every piece of the framework witnessedtheir games and quarrels; the pavilions grew up under the touch oftheir little hands. From all this arose the affection which they feltfor the great markets, and which the latter seemed to return. Theywere on familiar terms with that gigantic pile, old friends as theywere, who had seen each pin and bolt put into place. They felt no fearof the huge monster; but slapped it with their childish hands, treatedit like a good friend, a chum whose presence brought no constraint.And the markets seemed to smile at these two light-hearted children,whose love was the song, the idyll of their immensity.Cadine alone now slept at Mother Chantemesse's. The old woman hadpacked Marjolin off to a neighbour's. This made the two children veryunhappy. Still, they contrived to spend much of their time together.In the daytime they would hide themselves away in the warehouses ofthe Rue au Lard, behind piles of apples and cases of oranges; and inthe evening they would dive into the cellars beneath the poultrymarket, and secret themselves among the huge hampers of feathers whichstood near the blocks where the poultry was killed. They were quitealone there, amidst the strong smell of the poultry, and with never asound but the sudden crowing of some rooster to break upon theirbabble and their laughter. The feathers amidst which they foundthemselves were of all sorts--turkey's feathers, long and black; goosequills, white and flexible; the downy plumage of ducks, soft likecotton wool; and the ruddy and mottled feathers of fowls, which at thefaintest breath flew up in a cloud like a swarm of flies buzzing inthe sun. And then in wintertime there was the purple plumage of thepheasants, the ashen grey of the larks, the splotched silk of thepartridges, quails, and thrushes. And all these feathers freshlyplucked were still warm and odoriferous, seemingly endowed with life.The spot was as cosy as a nest; at times a quiver as of flapping wingssped by, and Marjolin and Cadine, nestling amidst all the plumage,often imagined that they were being carried aloft by one of those hugebirds with outspread pinions that one hears of in the fairy tales.As time went on their childish affection took the inevitable turn.Veritable offsprings of Nature, knowing naught of social conventionsand restraints, they loved one another in all innocence andguilelessness. They mated even as the birds of the air mate, even asyouth and maid mated in primeval times, because such is Nature's law.At sixteen Cadine was a dusky town gipsy, greedy and sensual, whilstMarjolin, now eighteen, was a tall, strapping fellow, as handsome ayouth as could be met, but still with his mental faculties quiteundeveloped. He had lived, indeed, a mere animal life, which hadstrengthened his frame, but left his intellect in a rudimentary state.When old Madame Chantemesse realised the turn that things were takingshe wrathfully upbraided Cadine and struck out vigorously at her withher broom. But the hussy only laughed and dodged the blows, and thenhied off to her lover. And gradually the markets became their home,their manger, their aviary, where they lived and loved amidst themeat, the butter, the vegetables, and the feathers.They discovered another little paradise in the pavilion where butter,eggs, and cheese were sold wholesale. Enormous walls of empty basketswere here piled up every morning, and amidst these Cadine and Marjolinburrowed and hollowed out a dark lair for themselves. A mere partitionof osier-work separated them from the market crowd, whose loud voicesrang out all around them. They often shook with laughter when people,without the least suspicion of their presence, stopped to talktogether a few yards away from them. On these occasions they wouldcontrive peepholes, and spy through them, and when cherries were inseason Cadine tossed the stones in the faces of all the old women whopassed along--a pastime which amused them the more as the startled oldcrones could never make out whence the hail of cherry-stones had come.They also prowled about the depths of the cellars, knowing everygloomy corner of them, and contriving to get through the mostcarefully locked gates. One of their favourite amusements was to visitthe track of the subterranean railway, which had been laid under themarkets, and which those who planned the latter had intended toconnect with the different goods' stations of Paris. Sections of thisrailway were laid beneath each of the covered ways, between thecellars of each pavilion; the work, indeed, was in such an advancedstate that turn-tables had been put into position at all the points ofintersection, and were in readiness for use. After much examination,Cadine and Marjolin had at last succeeded in discovering a loose plankin the hoarding which enclosed the track, and they had managed toconvert it into a door, by which they could easily gain access to theline. There they were quite shut off from the world, though they couldhear the continuous rumbling of the street traffic over their heads.The line stretched through deserted vaults, here and there illuminedby a glimmer of light filtering through iron gratings, while incertain dark corners gas jets were burning. And Cadine and Marjolinrambled about as in the secret recesses of some castle of their own,secure from all interruption, and rejoicing in the buzzy silence, themurky glimmer, and subterranean secrecy, which imparted a touch ofmelodrama to their experiences. All sorts of smells were waftedthrough the hoarding from the neighbouring cellars; the musty smell ofvegetables, the pungency of fish, the overpowering stench of cheese,and the warm reek of poultry.At other times, on clear nights and fine dawns, they would climb on tothe roofs, ascending thither by the steep staircases of the turrets atthe angles of the pavilions. Up above they found fields of leads,endless promenades and squares, a stretch of undulating country whichbelonged to them. They rambled round the square roofs of thepavilions, followed the course of the long roofs of the covered ways,climbed and descended the slopes, and lost themselves in endlessperambulations of discovery. And when they grew tired of the lowerlevels they ascended still higher, venturing up the iron ladders, onwhich Cadine's skirts flapped like flags. Then they ran along thesecond tier of roofs beneath the open heavens. There was nothing savethe stars above them. All sorts of sounds rose up from the echoingmarkets, a clattering and rumbling, a vague roar as of a distanttempest heard at nighttime. At that height the morning breeze sweptaway the evil smells, the foul breath of the awaking markets. Theywould kiss one another on the edge of the gutterings like sparrowsfrisking on the house-tops. The rising fires of the sun illuminedtheir faces with a ruddy glow. Cadine laughed with pleasure at beingso high up in the air, and her neck shone with iridescent tints like adove's; while Marjolin bent down to look at the street still wrappedin gloom, with his hands clutching hold of the leads like the feet ofa wood-pigeon. When they descended to earth again, joyful from theirexcursion in the fresh air, they would remark to one another that theywere coming back from the country.It was in the tripe market that they had made the acquaintance ofClaude Lantier. They went there every day, impelled thereto by ananimal taste for blood, the cruel instinct of urchins who findamusement in the sight of severed heads. A ruddy stream flowed alongthe gutters round the pavilion; they dipped the tips of their shoes init, and dammed it up with leaves, so as to form large pools of blood.They took a strong interest in the arrival of the loads of offal incarts which always smelt offensively, despite all the drenchings ofwater they got; they watched the unloading of the bundles of sheep'strotters, which were piled up on the ground like filthy paving-stones,of the huge stiffened tongues, bleeding at their torn roots, and ofthe massive bell-shaped bullocks' hearts. But the spectacle which,above all others, made them quiver with delight was that of the bigdripping hampers, full of sheep's heads, with greasy horns and blackmuzzles, and strips of woolly skin dangling from bleeding flesh. Thesight of these conjured up in their minds the idea of some guillotinecasting into the baskets the heads of countless victims.They followed the baskets into the depths of the cellar, watching themglide down the rails laid over the steps, and listening to the raspingnoise which the casters of these osier waggons made in their descent.Down below there was a scene of exquisite horror. They entered into acharnel-house atmosphere, and walked along through murky puddles,amidst which every now and then purple eyes seem to be glistening. Attimes the soles of their boots stuck to the ground, at others theysplashed through the horrible mire, anxious and yet delighted. Thegas jets burned low, like blinking, bloodshot eyes. Near the water-taps, in the pale light falling through the gratings, they came uponthe blocks; and there they remained in rapture watching the tripe men,who, in aprons stiffened by gory splashings, broke the sheep's headsone after another with a blow of their mallets. They lingered therefor hours, waiting till all the baskets were empty, fascinated by thecrackling of the bones, unable to tear themselves away till all wasover. Sometimes an attendant passed behind them, cleansing the cellarwith a hose; floods of water rushed out with a sluice-like roar, butalthough the violence of the discharge actually ate away the surfaceof the flagstones, it was powerless to remove the ruddy stains andstench of blood.Cadine and Marjolin were sure of meeting Claude between four and fivein the afternoon at the wholesale auction of the bullocks' lights. Hewas always there amidst the tripe dealers' carts backed up against thekerb-stones and the blue-bloused, white-aproned men who jostled himand deafened his ears by their loud bids. But he never felt theirelbows; he stood in a sort of ecstatic trance before the huge hanginglights, and often told Cadine and Marjolin that there was no finersight to be seen. The lights were of a soft rosy hue, graduallydeepening and turning at the lower edges to a rich carmine; and Claudecompared them to watered satin, finding no other term to describe thesoft silkiness of those flowing lengths of flesh which drooped inbroad folds like ballet dancers' skirts. He thought, too, of gauze andlace allowing a glimpse of pinky skin; and when a ray of sunshine fellupon the lights and girdled them with gold an expression of languorousrapture came into his eyes, and he felt happier than if he had beenprivileged to contemplate the Greek goddesses in their sovereignnudity, or the chatelaines of romance in their brocaded robes.The artist became a great friend of the two young scapegraces. Heloved beautiful animals, and such undoubtedly they were. For a longtime he dreamt of a colossal picture which should represent the lovesof Cadine and Marjolin in the central markets, amidst the vegetables,the fish, and the meat. He would have depicted them seated on somecouch of food, their arms circling each other's waists, and their lipsexchanging an idyllic kiss. In this conception he saw a manifestoproclaiming the positivism of art--modern art, experimental andmaterialistic. And it seemed to him also that it would be a smartsatire on the school which wishes every painting to embody an "idea,"a slap for the old traditions and all they represented. But during acouple of years he began study after study without succeeding ingiving the particular "note" he desired. In this way he spoilt fifteencanvases. His failure filled him with rancour; however, he continuedto associate with his two models from a sort of hopeless love for hisabortive picture. When he met them prowling about in the afternoon, heoften scoured the neighbourhood with them, strolling around with hishands in his pockets, and deeply interested in the life of thestreets.They all three trudged along together, dragging their heels over thefootways and monopolising their whole breadth so as to force others tostep down into the road. With their noses in the air they sniffed inthe odours of Paris, and could have recognised every corner blindfoldby the spirituous emanations of the wine shops, the hot puffs thatcame from the bakehouses and confectioners', and the musty odourswafted from the fruiterers'. They would make the circuit of the wholedistrict. They delighted in passing through the rotunda of the cornmarket, that huge massive stone cage where sacks of flour were piledup on every side, and where their footsteps echoed in the silence ofthe resonant roof. They were fond, too, of the little narrow streetsin the neighbourhood, which had become as deserted, as black, and asmournful as though they formed part of an abandoned city. These werethe Rue Babille, the Rue Sauval, the Rue des Deux Ecus, and the Rue deViarmes, this last pallid from its proximity to the millers' stores,and at four o'clock lively by reason of the corn exchange held there.It was generally at this point that they started on their round. Theymade their way slowly along the Rue Vauvilliers, glancing as they wentat the windows of the low eating-houses, and thus reaching themiserably narrow Rue des Prouvaires, where Claude blinked his eyes ashe saw one of the covered ways of the market, at the far end of which,framed round by this huge iron nave, appeared a side entrance of St.Eustache with its rose and its tiers of arched windows. And then, withan air of defiance, he would remark that all the middle ages and theRenaissance put together were less mighty than the central markets.Afterwards, as they paced the broad new streets, the Rue du Pont Neufand the Rue des Halles, he explained modern life with its widefootways, its lofty houses, and its luxurious shops, to the twourchins. He predicted, too, the advent of new and truly original art,whose approach he could divine, and despair filled him that itsrevelation should seemingly be beyond his own powers.Cadine and Marjolin, however, preferred the provincial quietness ofthe Rue des Bourdonnais, where one can play at marbles without fear ofbeing run over. The girl perked her head affectedly as she passed thewholesale glove and hosiery stores, at each door of which bareheadedassistants, with their pens stuck in their ears, stood watching herwith a weary gaze. And she and her lover had yet a stronger preferencefor such bits of olden Paris as still existed: the Rue de la Poterieand the Rue de la Lingerie, with their butter and egg and cheesedealers; the Rue de la Ferronerie and the Rue de l'Aiguillerie (thebeautiful streets of far-away times), with their dark narrow shops;and especially the Rue Courtalon, a dank, dirty by-way running fromthe Place Sainte Opportune to the Rue Saint Denis, and intersected byfoul-smelling alleys where they had romped in their younger days. Inthe Rue Saint Denis they entered into the land of dainties; and theysmiled upon the dried apples, the "Spanishwood," the prunes, and thesugar-candy in the windows of the grocers and druggists. Theirramblings always set them dreaming of a feast of good things, andinspired them with a desire to glut themselves on the contents of thewindows. To them the district seemed like some huge table, always laidwith an everlasting dessert into which they longed to plunge theirfingers.They devoted but a moment to visiting the other blocks of tumble-downold houses, the Rue Pirouette, the Rue de Mondetour, the Rue de laPetite Truanderie, and the Rue de la Grande Truanderie, for they tooklittle interest in the shops of the dealers in edible snails, cookedvegetables, tripe, and drink. In the Rue de la Grand Truanderie,however, there was a soap factory, an oasis of sweetness in the midstof all the foul odours, and Marjolin was fond of standing outside ittill some one happened to enter or come out, so that the perfume whichswept through the doorway might blow full in his face. Then with allspeed they returned to the Rue Pierre Lescot and the Rue Rambuteau.Cadine was extremely fond of salted provisions; she stood inadmiration before the bundles of red-herrings, the barrels ofanchovies and capers, and the little casks of gherkins and olives,standing on end with wooden spoons inside them. The smell of thevinegar titillated her throat; the pungent odour of the rolled cod,smoked salmon, bacon and ham, and the sharp acidity of the baskets oflemons, made her mouth water longingly. She was also fond of feastingher eyes on the boxes of sardines piled up in metallic columns amidstthe cases and sacks. In the Rue Montorgueil and the Rue Montmartrewere other tempting-looking groceries and restaurants, from whosebasements appetising odours were wafted, with glorious shows of gameand poultry, and preserved-provision shops, which last displayedbeside their doors open kegs overflowing with yellow sour-kroutsuggestive of old lacework. Then they lingered in the Rue Coquilliere,inhaling the odour of truffles from the premises of a notable dealerin comestibles, which threw so strong a perfume into the street thatCadine and Marjolin closed their eyes and imagined they wereswallowing all kinds of delicious things. These perfumes, however,distressed Claude. They made him realise the emptiness of his stomach,he said; and, leaving the "two animals" to feast on the odour of thetruffles--the most penetrating odour to be found in all theneighbourhood--he went off again to the corn market by way of the RueOblin, studying on his road the old women who sold green-stuff in thedoorways and the displays of cheap pottery spread out on the foot-pavements.Such were their rambles in common; but when Cadine set out alone withher bunches of violets she often went farther afield, making it apoint to visit certain shops for which she had a particularpartiality. She had an especial weakness for the Taboureau bakeryestablishment, one of the windows of which was exclusively devoted topastry. She would follow the Rue Turbigo and retrace her steps a dozentimes in order to pass again and again before the almond cakes, thesavarins, the St. Honore tarts, the fruit tarts, and the variousdishes containing bunlike babas redolent of rum, eclairs combiningthe finger biscuit with chocolate, and choux a la crme, littlerounds of pastry overflowing with whipped white of egg. The glass jarsfull of dry biscuits, macaroons, and madeleines also made her mouthwater; and the bright shop with its big mirrors, its marble slabs, itsgilding, its bread-bins of ornamental ironwork, and its second windowin which long glistening loaves were displayed slantwise, with one endresting on a crystal shelf whilst above they were upheld by a brassrod, was so warm and odoriferous of baked dough that her featuresexpanded with pleasure when, yielding to temptation, she went in tobuy a brioche for two sous.Another shop, one in front of the Square des Innocents, also filledher with gluttonous inquisitiveness, a fever of longing desire. Thisshop made a specialty of forcemeat pasties. In addition to theordinary ones there were pasties of pike and pasties of truffled foiegras; and the girl would gaze yearningly at them, saying to herselfthat she would really have to eat one some day.Cadine also had her moments of vanity and coquetry. When these fitswere on her, she bought herself in imagination some of the magnificentdresses displayed in the windows of the "Fabriques de France" whichmade the Pointe Saint Eustache gaudy with their pieces of bright stuffhanging from the first floor to the footway and flapping in thebreeze. Somewhat incommoded by the flat basket hanging before her,amidst the crowd of market women in dirty aprons gazing at futureSunday dresses, the girl would feel the woollens, flannels, andcottons to test the texture and suppleness of the material; and shewould promise herself a gown of bright-coloured flannelling, floweredprint, or scarlet poplin. Sometimes even from amongst the piecesdraped and set off to advantage by the window-dressers she wouldchoose some soft sky-blue or apple-green silk, and dream of wearing itwith pink ribbons. In the evenings she would dazzle herself with thedisplays in the windows of the big jewellers in the Rue Montmartre.That terrible street deafened her with its ceaseless flow of vehicles,and the streaming crowd never ceased to jostle her; still she did notstir, but remained feasting her eyes on the blazing splendour set outin the light of the reflecting lamps which hung outside the windows.On one side all was white with the bright glitter of silver: watchesin rows, chains hanging, spoons and forks laid crossways, cups, snuff-boxes, napkin-rings, and combs arranged on shelves. The silverthimbles, dotting a porcelain stand covered with a glass shade, had anespecial attraction for her. Then on the other side the windowsglistened with the tawny glow of gold. A cascade of long pendantchains descended from above, rippling with ruddy gleams; small ladies'watches, with the backs of their cases displayed, sparkled like fallenstars; wedding rings clustered round slender rods; bracelets,broaches, and other costly ornaments glittered on the black velvetlinings of their cases; jewelled rings set their stands aglow withblue, green, yellow, and violet flamelets; while on every tier of theshelves superposed rows of earrings and crosses and lockets hungagainst the crystal like the rich fringes of altar-cloths. The glow ofthis gold illumined the street half way across with a sun-likeradiance. And Cadine, as she gazed at it, almost fancied that she wasin presence of something holy, or on the threshold of the Emperor'streasure chamber. She would for a long time scrutinise all this showof gaudy jewellery, adapted to the taste of the fish-wives, andcarefully read the large figures on the tickets affixed to eacharticle; and eventually she would select for herself a pair of earrings--pear-shaped drops of imitation coral hanging from golden roses.One morning Claude caught her standing in ecstasy before a hair-dresser's window in the Rue Saint Honore. She was gazing at thedisplay of hair with an expression of intense envy. High up in thewindow was a streaming cascade of long manes, soft wisps, loosetresses, frizzy falls, undulating comb-curls, a perfect cataract ofsilky and bristling hair, real and artificial, now in coils of aflaming red, now in thick black crops, now in pale golden locks, andeven in snowy white ones for the coquette of sixty. In cardboard boxesdown below were cleverly arranged fringes, curling side-ringlets, andcarefully combed chignons glossy with pomade. And amidst thisframework, in a sort of shrine beneath the ravelled ends of thehanging locks, there revolved the bust of a woman, arrayed in awrapper of cherry-coloured satin fastened between the breasts with abrass brooch. The figure wore a lofty bridal coiffure picked out withsprigs of orange blossom, and smiled with a dollish smile. Its eyeswere pale blue; its eyebrows were very stiff and of exaggeratedlength; and its waxen cheeks and shoulders bore evident traces of theheat and smoke of the gas. Cadine waited till the revolving figureagain displayed its smiling face, and as its profile showed moredistinctly and it slowly went round from left to right she feltperfectly happy. Claude, however, was indignant, and, shaking Cadine,he asked her what she was doing in front of "that abomination, thatcorpse-like hussy picked up at the Morgue!" He flew into a temper withthe "dummy's" cadaverous face and shoulders, that disfigurement of thebeautiful, and remarked that artists painted nothing but that unrealtype of woman nowadays. Cadine, however, remained unconvinced by hisoratory, and considered the lady extremely beautiful. Then, resistingthe attempts of the artist to drag her away by the arm, and scratchingher black mop in vexation, she pointed to an enormous ruddy tail,severed from the quarters of some vigorous mare, and told him shewould have liked to have a crop of hair like that.During the long rambles when Claude, Cadine, and Marjolin prowledabout the neighbourhood of the markets, they saw the iron ribs of thegiant building at the end of every street. Wherever they turned theycaught sudden glimpses of it; the horizon was always bounded by it;merely the aspect under which it was seen varied. Claude wasperpetually turning round, and particularly in the Rue Montmartre,after passing the church. From that point the markets, seen obliquelyin the distance, filled him with enthusiasm. A huge arcade, a giant,gaping gateway, was open before him; then came the crowding pavilionswith their lower and upper roofs, their countless Venetian shuttersand endless blinds, a vision, as it were, of superposed houses andpalaces; a Babylon of metal of Hindoo delicacy of workmanship,intersected by hanging terraces, aerial galleries, and flying bridgespoised over space. The trio always returned to this city round whichthey strolled, unable to stray more than a hundred yards away. Theycame back to it during the hot afternoons when the Venetian shutterswere closed and the blinds lowered. In the covered ways all seemed tobe asleep, the ashy greyness was streaked by yellow bars of sunlightfalling through the high windows. Only a subdued murmur broke thesilence; the steps of a few hurrying passers-by resounded on thefootways; whilst the badge-wearing porters sat in rows on the stoneledges at the corners of the pavilions, taking off their boots andnursing their aching feet. The quietude was that of a colossus atrest, interrupted at times by some cock-crow rising from the cellarsbelow.Claude, Cadine, and Marjolin then often went to see the empty hamperspiled upon the drays, which came to fetch them every afternoon so thatthey might be sent back to the consignors. There were mountains ofthem, labelled with black letters and figures, in front of thesalesmen's warehouses in the Rue Berger. The porters arranged themsymmetrically, tier by tier, on the vehicles. When the pile rose,however, to the height of a first floor, the porter who stood belowbalancing the next batch of hampers had to make a spring in order totoss them up to his mate, who was perched aloft with arms extended.Claude, who delighted in feats of strength and dexterity, would standfor hours watching the flight of these masses of osier, and wouldburst into a hearty laugh whenever too vigorous a toss sent themflying over the pile into the roadway beyond. He was fond, too, of thefootways of the Rue Rambuteau and the Rue du Pont Neuf, near the fruitmarket, where the retail dealers congregated. The sight of thevegetables displayed in the open air, on trestle-tables covered withdamp black rags, was full of charm for him. At four in the afternoonthe whole of this nook of greenery was aglow with sunshine; and Claudewandered between the stalls, inspecting the bright-coloured heads ofthe saleswomen with keen artistic relish. The younger ones, with theirhair in nets, had already lost all freshness of complexion through therough life they led; while the older ones were bent and shrivelled,with wrinkled, flaring faces showing under the yellow kerchiefs boundround their heads. Cadine and Marjolin refused to accompany himhither, as they could perceive old Mother Chantemesse shaking her fistat them, in her anger at seeing them prowling about together. Hejoined them again, however, on the opposite footway, where he found asplendid subject for a picture in the stallkeepers squatting undertheir huge umbrellas of faded red, blue, and violet, which, mountedupon poles, filled the whole market-side with bumps, and showedconspicuously against the fiery glow of the sinking sun, whose raysfaded amidst the carrots and the turnips. One tattered harridan, acentury old, was sheltering three spare-looking lettuces beneath anumbrella of pink silk, shockingly split and stained.Cadine and Marjolin had struck up an acquaintance with Leon, Quenu'sapprentice, one day when he was taking a pie to a house in theneighbourhood. They saw him cautiously raise the lid of his pan in asecluded corner of the Rue de Mondetour, and delicately take out aball of forcemeat. They smiled at the sight, which gave them a veryhigh opinion of Leon. And the idea came to Cadine that she might atlast satisfy one of her most ardent longings. Indeed, the very nexttime that she met the lad with his basket she made herself veryagreeable, and induced him to offer her a forcemeat ball. But,although she laughed and licked her fingers, she experienced somedisappointment. The forcemeat did not prove nearly so nice as she hadanticipated. On the other hand, the lad, with his sly, greedy phiz andhis white garments, which made him look like a girl going to her firstcommunion, somewhat took her fancy.She invited him to a monster lunch which she gave amongst the hampersin the auction room at the butter market. The three of them--herself,Marjolin, and Leon--completely secluded themselves from the worldwithin four walls of osier. The feast was laid out on a large flatbasket. There were pears, nuts, cream-cheese, shrimps, fried potatoes,and radishes. The cheese came from a fruiterer's in the Rue de laCossonnerie, and was a present; and a "frier" of the Rue de la GrandeTruanderie had given Cadine credit for two sous' worth of potatoes.The rest of the feast, the pears, the nuts, the shrimps, and theradishes, had been pilfered from different parts of the market. It wasa delicious treat; and Leon, desirous of returning the hospitality,gave a supper in his bedroom at one o'clock in the morning. The billof fare included cold black-pudding, slices of polony, a piece of saltpork, some gherkins, and some goose-fat. The Quenu-Gradelles' shop hadprovided everything. And matters did not stop there. Dainty suppersalternated with delicate luncheons, and invitation upon invitation.Three times a week there were banquets, either amidst the hampers orin Leon's garret, where Florent, on the nights when he lay awake,could hear a stifled sound of munching and rippling laughter until daybegan to break.The loves of Cadine and Marjolin now took another turn. The youthplayed the gallant, and just as another might entertain hisinnamorata at a champagne supper en tete a tete in a private room,he led Cadine into some quiet corner of the market cellars to munchapples or sprigs of celery. One day he stole a red-herring, which theydevoured with immense enjoyment on the roof of the fish market besidethe guttering. There was not a single shady nook in the whole placewhere they did not indulge in secret feasts. The district, with itsrows of open shops full of fruit and cakes and preserves, was nolonger a closed paradise, in front of which they prowled with greedy,covetous appetites. As they passed the shops they now extended theirhands and pilfered a prune, a few cherries, or a bit of cod. They alsoprovisioned themselves at the markets, keeping a sharp look-out asthey made their way between the stalls, picking up everything thatfell, and often assisting the fall by a push of their shoulders.In spite, however, of all the marauding, some terrible scores had tobe run up with the "frier" of the Rue de la Grand Truanderie. This"frier," whose shanty leaned against a tumble-down house, and waspropped up by heavy joists, green with moss, made a display of boiledmussels lying in large earthenware bowls filled to the brim with clearwater; of dishes of little yellow dabs stiffened by too thick acoating of paste; of squares of tripe simmering in a pan; and ofgrilled herrings, black and charred, and so hard that if you tappedthem they sounded like wood. On certain weeks Cadine owed the frier asmuch as twenty sous, a crushing debt, which required the sale of anincalculable number of bunches of violets, for she could count upon noassistance from Marjolin. Moreover, she was bound to return Leon'shospitalities; and she even felt some little shame at never being ableto offer him a scrap of meat. He himself had now taken to purloiningentire hams. As a rule, he stowed everything away under his shirt; andat night when he reached his bedroom he drew from his bosom hunks ofpolony, slices of pate de foie gras, and bundles of pork rind. Theyhad to do without bread, and there was nothing to drink; but nomatter. One night Marjolin saw Leon kiss Cadine between two mouthfuls;however, he only laughed. He could have smashed the little fellow witha blow from his fist, but he felt no jealousy in respect of Cadine. Hetreated her simply as a comrade with whom he had chummed for years.Claude never participated in these feasts. Having caught Cadine oneday stealing a beet-root from a little hamper lined with hay, he hadpulled her ears and given her a sound rating. These thievingpropensities made her perfect as a ne'er-do-well. However, in spite ofhimself, he could not help feeling a sort of admiration for thesesensual, pilfering, greedy creatures, who preyed upon everything thatlay about, feasting off the crumbs that fell from the giant's table.At last Marjolin nominally took service under Gavard, happy in havingnothing to do except to listen to his master's flow of talk, whileCadine still continued to sell violets, quite accustomed by this timeto old Mother Chantemesse's scoldings. They were still the samechildren as ever, giving way to their instincts and appetites withoutthe slightest shame--they were the growth of the slimy pavements ofthe market district, where, even in fine weather, the mud remainsblack and sticky. However, as Cadine walked along the footways,mechanically twisting her bunches of violets, she was sometimesdisturbed by disquieting reveries; and Marjolin, too, suffered from anuneasiness which he could not explain. He would occasionally leave thegirl and miss some ramble or feast in order to go and gaze at MadameQuenu through the windows of her pork shop. She was so handsome andplump and round that it did him good to look at her. As he stoodgazing at her, he felt full and satisfied, as though he had just eatenor drunk something extremely nice. And when he went off, a sort ofhunger and thirst to see her again suddenly came upon him. This hadbeen going on for a couple of months. At first he had looked at herwith the respectful glance which he bestowed upon the shop-fronts ofthe grocers and provision dealers; but subsequently, when he andCadine had taken to general pilfering, he began to regard her smoothcheeks much as he regarded the barrels of olives and boxes of driedapples.For some time past Marjolin had seen handsome Lisa every day, in themorning. She would pass Gavard's stall, and stop for a moment or twoto chat with the poultry dealer. She now did her marketing herself, sothat she might be cheated as little as possible, she said. The truth,however, was that she wished to make Gavard speak out. In the porkshop he was always distrustful, but at his stall he chatted and talkedwith the utmost freedom. Now, Lisa had made up her mind to ascertainfrom him exactly what took place in the little room at MonsieurLebigre's; for she had no great confidence in her secret policeoffice, Mademoiselle Saget. In a short time she learnt from theincorrigible chatterbox a lot of vague details which very much alarmedher. Two days after her explanation with Quenu she returned home fromthe market looking very pale. She beckoned to her husband to followher into the dining-room, and having carefully closed the door shesaid to him: "Is your brother determined to send us to the scaffold,then? Why did you conceal from me what you knew?"Quenu declared that he knew nothing. He even swore a great oath thathe had not returned to Monsieur Lebigre's, and would never go thereagain."You will do well not to do so," replied Lisa, shrugging hershoulders, "unless you want to get yourself into a serious scrape.Florent is up to some evil trick, I'm certain of it! I have justlearned quite sufficient to show me where he is going. He's going backto Cayenne, do you hear?"Then, after a pause, she continued in calmer ones: "Oh, the unhappyman! He had everything here that he could wish for. He might haveredeemed his character; he had nothing but good examples before him.But no, it is in his blood! He will come to a violent end with hispolitics! I insist upon there being an end to all this! You hear me,Quenu? I gave you due warning long ago!"She spoke the last words very incisively. Quenu bent his head, as ifawaiting sentence."To begin with," continued Lisa, "he shall cease to take his mealshere. It will be quite sufficient if we give him a bed. He is earningmoney; let him feed himself."Quenu seemed on the point of protesting, but his wife silenced him byadding energetically:"Make your choice between him and me. If he remains here, I swear toyou that I will go away, and take my daughter with me. Do you want meto tell you the whole truth about him? He is a man capable ofanything; he has come here to bring discord into our household. But Iwill set things right, you may depend on it. You have your choicebetween him and me; you hear me?"Then, leaving her husband in silent consternation, she returned to theshop, where she served a customer with her usual affable smile. Thefact was that, having artfully inveigled Gavard into a politicaldiscussion, the poultry dealer had told her that she would soon seehow the land lay, that they were going to make a clean sweep ofeverything, and that two determined men like her brother-in-law andhimself would suffice to set the fire blazing. This was the evil trickof which she had spoken to Quenu, some conspiracy to which Gavard wasalways making mysterious allusions with a sniggering grin from whichhe seemingly desired a great deal to be inferred. And in imaginationLisa already saw the gendarmes invading the pork shop, gaggingherself, her husband, and Pauline, and casting them into someunderground dungeon.In the evening, at dinner, she evinced an icy frigidity. She made nooffers to serve Florent, but several times remarked: "It's verystrange what an amount of bread we've got through lately."Florent at last understood. He felt that he was being treated like apoor relation who is gradually turned out of doors. For the last twomonths Lisa had dressed him in Quenu's old trousers and coats; and, ashe was as thin as his brother was fat, these ragged garments had amost extraordinary appearance upon him. She also turned her oldestlinen over to him: pocket-handkerchiefs which had been darned a scoreof times, ragged towels, sheets which were only fit to be cut up intodusters and dish-cloths, and worn-out shirts, distended by Quenu'scorpulent figure, and so short that they would have served Florent asunder-vests. Moreover, he no longer found around him the same good-natured kindliness as in the earlier days. The whole household seemedto shrug its shoulders after the example set by handsome Lisa. Augusteand Augustine turned their backs upon him, and little Pauline, withthe cruel frankness of childhood, let fall some bitter remarks aboutthe stains on his coat and the holes in his shirt. However, during thelast days he suffered most at table. He scarcely dared to eat, as hesaw the mother and daughter fix their gaze upon him whenever he cuthimself a piece of bread. Quenu meantime peered into his plate, toavoid having to take any part in what went on.That which most tortured Florent was his inability to invent a reasonfor leaving the house. During a week he kept on revolving in his minda sentence expressing his resolve to take his meals elsewhere, butcould not bring himself to utter it. Indeed, this man of tender naturelived in such a world of illusions that he feared he might hurt hisbrother and sister-in-law by ceasing to lunch and dine with them. Ithad taken him over two months to detect Lisa's latent hostility; andeven now he was sometimes inclined to think that he must be mistaken,and that she was in reality kindly disposed towards him. Unselfishnesswith him extended to forgetfulness of his requirements; it was nolonger a virtue, but utter indifference to self, an absoluteobliteration of personality. Even when he recognised that he was beinggradually turned out of the house, his mind never for a moment dweltupon his share in old Gradelle's fortune, or upon the accounts whichLisa had offered him. He had already planned out his expenditure forthe future; reckoning that with what Madame Verlaque still allowed himto retain of his salary, and the thirty francs a month which a pupil,obtained through La Normande, paid him he would be able to spendeighteen sous on his breakfast and twenty-six sous on his dinner.This, he thought, would be ample. And so, at last, taking as hisexcuse the lessons which he was giving his new pupil, he emboldenedhimself one morning to pretend that it would be impossible for him infuture to come to the house at mealtimes. He blushed as he gaveutterance to this laboriously constructed lie, which had given him somuch trouble, and continued apologetically:"You mustn't be offended; the boy only has those hours free. I caneasily get something to eat, you know; and I will come and have a chatwith you in the evenings."Beautiful Lisa maintained her icy reserve, and this increasedFlorent's feeling of trouble. In order to have no cause for self-reproach she had been unwilling to send him about his business,preferring to wait till he should weary of the situation and go of hisown accord. Now he was going, and it was a good riddance; and shestudiously refrained from all show of kindliness for fear it mightinduce him to remain. Quenu, however, showed some signs of emotion,and exclaimed: "Don't think of putting yourself about; take your mealselsewhere by all means, if it is more convenient. It isn't we who areturning you way; you'll at all events dine with us sometimes onSundays, eh?"Florent hurried off. His heart was very heavy. When he had gone, thebeautiful Lisa did not venture to reproach her husband for hisweakness in giving that invitation for Sundays. She had conquered, andagain breathed freely amongst the light oak of her dining-room, whereshe would have liked to burn some sugar to drive away the odour ofperverse leanness which seemed to linger about. Moreover, shecontinued to remain on the defensive; and at the end of another weekshe felt more alarmed than ever. She only occasionally saw Florent inthe evenings, and began to have all sorts of dreadful thoughts,imagining that her brother-in-law was constructing some infernalmachine upstairs in Augustine's bedroom, or else making signals whichwould result in barricades covering the whole neighbourhood. Gavard,who had become gloomy, merely nodded or shook his head when she spoketo him, and left his stall for days together in Marjolin's charge. Thebeautiful Lisa, however, determined that she would get to the bottomof affairs. She knew that Florent had obtained a day's leave, andintended to spend it with Claude Lantier, at Madame Francois's, atNanterre. As he would start in the morning, and remain away tillnight, she conceived the idea of inviting Gavard to dinner. He wouldbe sure to talk freely, at table, she thought. But throughout themorning she was unable to meet the poultry dealer, and so in theafternoon she went back again to the markets.Marjolin was in the stall alone. He used to drowse there for hours,recouping himself from the fatigue of his long rambles. He generallysat upon one chair with his legs resting upon another, and his headleaning against a little dresser. In the wintertime he took a keendelight in lolling there and contemplating the display of game; thebucks hanging head downwards, with their fore-legs broken and twistedround their necks; the larks festooning the stall like garlands; thebig ruddy hares, the mottled partridges, the water-fowl of a bronze-grey hue, the Russian black cocks and hazel hens, which arrived in apacking of oat straw and charcoal;[*] and the pheasants, themagnificent pheasants, with their scarlet hoods, their stomachers ofgreen satin, their mantles of embossed gold, and their flaming tails,that trailed like trains of court robes. All this show of plumagereminded Marjolin of his rambles in the cellars with Cadine amongstthe hampers of feathers.[*] The baskets in which these are sent to Paris are identical withthose which in many provinces of Russia serve the moujiks ascradles for their infants.--Translator.That afternoon the beautiful Lisa found Marjolin in the midst of thepoultry. It was warm, and whiffs of hot air passed along the narrowalleys of the pavilion. She was obliged to stoop before she could seehim stretched out inside the stall, below the bare flesh of the birds.From the hooked bar up above hung fat geese, the hooks sticking in thebleeding wounds of their long stiffened necks, while their huge bodiesbulged out, glowing ruddily beneath their fine down, and, with theirsnowy tails and wings, suggesting nudity encompassed by fine linen.And also hanging from the bar, with ears thrown back and feet partedas though they were bent on some vigorous leap, were grey rabbitswhose turned-up tails gleamed whitely, whilst their heads, with sharpteeth and dim eyes, laughed with the grin of death. On the counter ofthe stall plucked fowls showed their strained fleshy breasts; pigeons,crowded on osier trays, displayed the soft bare skin of innocents;ducks, with skin of rougher texture, exhibited their webbed feet; andthree magnificent turkeys, speckled with blue dots, like freshly-shaven chins, slumbered on their backs amidst the black fans of theirexpanded tails. On plates near by were giblets, livers, gizzards,necks, feet, and wings; while an oval dish contained a skinned andgutted rabbit, with its four legs wide apart, its head bleeding, andis kidneys showing through its gashed belly. A streamlet of darkblood, after trickling along its back to its tail, had fallen drop bydrop, staining the whiteness of the dish. Marjolin had not even takenthe trouble to wipe the block, near which the rabbit's feet were stilllying. He reclined there with his eyes half closed, encompassed byother piles of dead poultry which crowded the shelves of the stall,poultry in paper wrappers like bouquets, rows upon rows of protuberantbreasts and bent legs showing confusedly. And amidst all this mass offood, the young fellow's big, fair figure, the flesh of his cheeks,hands, and powerful neck covered with ruddy down seemed as soft asthat of the magnificent turkeys, and as plump as the breasts of thefat geese.When he caught sight of Lisa, he at once sprang up, blushing at havingbeen caught sprawling in this way. He always seemed very nervous andill at ease in Madame Quenu's presence; and when she asked him ifMonsieur Gavard was there, he stammered out: "No, I don't think so. Hewas here a little while ago, but he want away again."Lisa looked at him, smiling; she had a great liking for him. Butfeeling something warm brush against her hand, which was hanging byher side, she raised a little shriek. Some live rabbits were thrustingtheir noses out of a box under the counter of the stall, and sniffingat her skirts."Oh," she exclaimed with a laugh, "it's your rabbits that are ticklingme."Then she stooped and attempted to stroke a white rabbit, which dartedin alarm into a corner of the box."Will Monsieur Gavard be back soon, do you think?" she asked, as sheagain rose erect.Marjolin once more replied that he did not know; then in a hesitatingway he continued: "He's very likely gone down into the cellars. Hetold me, I think, that he was going there.""Well, I think I'll wait for him, then," replied Lisa. "Could you lethim know that I am here? or I might go down to him, perhaps. Yes,that's a good idea; I've been intending to go and have a look at thecellars for these last five years. You'll take me down, won't you, andexplain things to me?"Marjolin blushed crimson, and, hurrying out of the stall, walked on infront of her, leaving the poultry to look after itself. "Of course Iwill," said he. "I'll do anything you wish, Madame Lisa."When they got down below, the beautiful Lisa felt quite suffocated bythe dank atmosphere of the cellar. She stood at the bottom step, andraised her eyes to look at the vaulted roofing of red and white bricksarching slightly between the iron ribs upheld by small columns. Whatmade her hesitate more than the gloominess of the place was a warm,penetrating odour, the exhalations of large numbers of livingcreatures, which irritated her nostrils and throat."What a nasty smell!" she exclaimed. "It must be very unhealthy downhere.""It never does me any harm," replied Marjolin in astonishment."There's nothing unpleasant about the smell when you've got accustomedto it; and it's very warm and cosy down here in the wintertime."As Lisa followed him, however, she declared that the strong scent ofthe poultry quite turned her stomach, and that she would certainly notbe able to eat a fowl for the next two months. All around her, thestorerooms, the small cabins where the stallkeepers keep their livestock, formed regular streets, intersecting each other at rightangles. There were only a few scattered gas lights, and the littlealleys seemed wrapped in sleep like the lanes of a village where theinhabitants have all gone to bed. Marjolin made Lisa feel the close-meshed wiring, stretched on a framework of cast iron; and as she madeher way along one of the streets she amused herself by reading thenames of the different tenants, which were inscribed on blue labels."Monsieur Gavard's place is quite at the far end," said the young man,still walking on.They turned to the left, and found themselves in a sort of blindalley, a dark, gloomy spot where not a ray of light penetrated. Gavardwas not there."Oh, it makes no difference," said Marjolin. "I can show you our birdsjust the same. I have a key of the storeroom."Lisa followed him into the darkness."You don't suppose that I can see your birds in this black oven, doyou?" she asked, laughing.Marjolin did not reply at once; but presently he stammered out thatthere was always a candle in the storeroom. He was fumbling about thelock, and seemed quite unable to find the keyhole. As Lisa came up tohelp him, she felt a hot breath on her neck; and when the young manhad at last succeeded in opening the door and lighted the candle, shesaw that he was trembling."You silly fellow!" she exclaimed, "to get yourself into such a statejust because a door won't open! Why, you're no better than a girl, inspite of your big fists!"She stepped inside the storeroom. Gavard had rented two compartments,which he had thrown into one by removing the partition between them.In the dirt on the floor wallowed the larger birds--the geese,turkeys, and ducks--while up above, on tiers of shelves, were boxeswith barred fronts containing fowls and rabbits. The grating of thestoreroom was so coated with dust and cobwebs that it looked as thoughcovered with grey blinds. The woodwork down below was rotting, andcovered with filth. Lisa, however, not wishing to vex Marjolin,refrained from any further expression of disgust. She pushed herfingers between the bars of the boxes, and began to lament the fate ofthe unhappy fowls, which were so closely huddled together and couldnot even stand upright. Then she stroked a duck with a broken legwhich was squatting in a corner, and the young man told her that itwould be killed that very evening, for fear lest it should die duringthe night."But what do they do for food?" asked Lisa.Thereupon he explained to her that poultry would not eat in the dark,and that it was necessary to light a candle and wait there till theyhad finished their meal."It amuses me to watch them," he continued; "I often stay here with alight for hours altogether. You should see how they peck away; andwhen I hide the flame of the candle with my hand they all stand stock-still with their necks in the air, just as though the sun had set. Itis against the rules to leave a lighted candle here and go away. Oneof the dealers, old Mother Palette--you know her, don't you?--nearlyburned the whole place down the other day. A fowl must have knockedthe candle over into the straw while she was away.""A pretty thing, isn't it," said Lisa, "for fowls to insist uponhaving the chandeliers lighted up every time they take a meal?"This idea made her laugh. Then she came out of the storeroom, wipingher feet, and holding up her skirts to keep them from the filth.Marjolin blew out the candle and locked the door. Lisa felt rathernervous at finding herself in the dark again with this big youngfellow, and so she hastened on in front."I'm glad I came, all the same," she presently said, as he joined her."There is a great deal more under these markets than I ever imagined.But I must make haste now and get home again. They'll wonder what hasbecome of me at the shop. If Monsieur Gavard comes back, tell him thatI want to speak to him immediately.""I expect he's in the killing-room," said Marjolin. "We'll go and see,if you like."Lisa made no reply. She felt oppressed by the close atmosphere whichwarmed her face. She was quite flushed, and her bodice, generally sostill and lifeless, began to heave. Moreover, the sound of Marjolin'shurrying steps behind her filled her with an uneasy feeling. At lastshe stepped aside, and let him go on in front. The lanes of thisunderground village were still fast asleep. Lisa noticed that hercompanion was taking the longest way. When they came out in front ofthe railway track he told her that he had wished to show it to her;and they stood for a moment or two looking through the chinks in thehoarding of heavy beams. Then Marjolin proposed to take her on to theline; but she refused, saying that it was not worth while, as shecould see things well enough where she was.As they returned to the poultry cellars they found old Madame Palettein front of her storeroom, removing the cords of a large squarehamper, in which a furious fluttering of wings and scraping of feetcould be heard. As she unfastened the last knot the lid suddenly flewopen, as though shot up by a spring, and some big geese thrust outtheir heads and necks. Then, in wild alarm, they sprang from theirprison and rushed away, craning their necks, and filling the darkcellars with a frightful noise of hissing and clattering of beaks.Lisa could not help laughing, in spite of the lamentations of the oldwoman, who swore like a carter as she caught hold of two of theabsconding birds and dragged them back by the neck. Marjolin,meantime, set off in pursuit of a third. They could hear him runningalong the narrow alleys, hunting for the runaway, and delighting inthe chase. Then, far off in the distance, they heard the sounds of astruggle, and presently Marjolin came back again, bringing the goosewith him. Mother Palette, a sallow-faced old woman, took it in herarms and clasped it for a moment to her bosom, in the classic attitudeof Leda."Well, well, I'm sure I don't know what I should have done if youhadn't been here," said she. "The other day I had a regular fight withone of the brutes; but I had my knife with me, and I cut its throat."Marjolin was quite out of breath. When they reached the stone blockswhere the poultry were killed, and where the gas burnt more brightly,Lisa could see that he was perspiring, and had bold, glistening eyes.She thought he looked very handsome like that, with his broadshoulders, big flushed face, and fair curly hair, and she looked athim so complacently, with that air of admiration which women feel theymay safely express for quite young lads, that he relapsed into timidbashfulness again."Well, Monsieur Gavard isn't here, you see," she said. "You've onlymade me waste my time."Marjolin, however, began rapidly explaining the killing of the poultryto her. Five huge stone slabs stretched out in the direction of theRue Rambuteau under the yellow light of the gas jets. A woman waskilling fowls at one end; and this led him to tell Lisa that the birdswere plucked almost before they were dead, the operation thus beingmuch easier. Then he wanted her to feel the feathers which were lyingin heaps on the stone slabs; and told her that they were sorted andsold for as much as nine sous the pound, according to their quality.To satisfy him, she was also obliged to plunge her hand into the bighampers full of down. Then he turned the water-taps, of which therewas one by every pillar. There was no end to the particulars he gave.The blood, he said, streamed along the stone blocks, and collectedinto pools on the paved floor, which attendants sluiced with waterevery two hours, removing the more recent stains with coarse brushes.When Lisa stooped over the drain which carries away the swillings,Marjolin found a fresh text for talk. On rainy days, said he, thewater sometimes rose through this orifice and flooded the place. Ithad once risen a foot high; and they had been obliged to transport allthe poultry to the other end of the cellar, which is on a higherlevel. He laughed as he recalled the wild flutter of the terrifiedcreatures. However, he had now finished, and it seemed as though thereremained nothing else for him to show, when all at once he bethoughthimself of the ventilator. Thereupon he took Lisa off to the far endof the cellar, and told her to look up; and inside one of the turretsat the corner angles of the pavilion she observed a sort of escape-pipe, by which the foul atmosphere of the storerooms ascended intospace.Here, in this corner, reeking with abominable odours, Marjolin'snostrils quivered, and his breath came and went violently. His longstroll with Lisa in these cellars, full of warm animal perfumes, hadgradually intoxicated him.She had again turned towards him. "Well," said she, "it was very kindof you to show me all this, and when you come to the shop I will giveyou something."Whilst speaking she took hold of his soft chin, as she often did,without recognising that he was no longer a child; and perhaps sheallowed her hand to linger there a little longer than was her wont. Atall events, Marjolin, usually so bashful, was thrilled by the caress,and all at once he impetuously sprang forward, clasped Lisa by theshoulders, and pressed his lips to her soft cheeks. She raised no cry,but turned very pale at this sudden attack, which showed her howimprudent she had been. And then, freeing herself from the embrace,she raised her arm, as she had seen men do in slaughter houses,clenched her comely fist, and knocked Marjolin down with a singleblow, planted straight between his eyes; and as he fell his head cameinto collision with one of the stone slabs, and was split open. Justat that moment the hoarse and prolonged crowing of a cock soundedthrough the gloom.Handsome Lisa, however, remained perfectly cool. Her lips were tightlycompressed, and her bosom had recovered its wonted immobility. Upabove she could hear the heavy rumbling of the markets, and throughthe vent-holes alongside the Rue Rambuteau the noise of the streettraffic made its way into the oppressive silence of the cellar. Lisareflected that her own strong arm had saved her; and then, fearinglest some one should come and find her there, she hastened off,without giving a glance at Marjolin. As she climbed the steps, afterpassing through the grated entrance of the cellars, the daylightbrought her great relief.She returned to the shop, quite calm, and only looking a little pale."You've been a long time," Quenu said to her."I can't find Gavard. I have looked for him everywhere," she quietlyreplied. "We shall have to eat our leg of mutton without him."Then she filled the lard pot, which she noticed was empty; and cutsome pork chops for her friend Madame Taboureau, who had sent herlittle servant for them. The blows which she dealt with her cleaverreminded her of Marjolin. She felt that she had nothing to reproachherself with. She had acted like an honest woman. She was not going todisturb her peace of mind; she was too happy to do anything tocompromise herself. However, she glanced at Quenu, whose neck wascoarse and ruddy, and whose shaven chin looked as rough as knottedwood; whereas Marjolin's chin and neck resembled rosy satin. But thenshe must not think of him any more, for he was no longer a child. Sheregretted it, and could not help thinking that children grew up muchtoo quickly.A slight flush came back to her cheeks, and Quenu considered that shelooked wonderfully blooming. He came and sat down beside her at thecounter for a moment or two. "You ought to go out oftener," said he;"it does you good. We'll go to the theatre together one of thesenights, if you like; to the Gaite, eh? Madame Taboureau has been tosee the piece they are playing there, and she declares it's splendid."Lisa smiled, and said they would see about it, and then once more shetook herself off. Quenu thought that it was too good of her to take somuch trouble in running about after that brute Gavard. In point offact, however, she had simply gone upstairs to Florent's bedroom, thekey of which was hanging from a nail in the kitchen. She hoped to findout something or other by an inspection of this room, since thepoultry dealer had failed her. She went slowly round it, examining thebed, the mantelpiece, and every corner. The window with the littlebalcony was open, and the budding pomegranate was steeped in thegolden beams of the setting sun. The room looked to her as thoughAugustine had never left it--had slept there only the night before.There seemed to be nothing masculine about the place. She was quitesurprised, for she had expected to find some suspicious-lookingchests, and coffers with strong locks. She went to feel Augustine'ssummer gown, which was still hanging against the wall. Then she satdown at the table, and began to read an unfinished page of manuscript,in which the word "revolution" occurred twice. This alarmed her, andshe opened the drawer, which she saw was full of papers. But her senseof honour awoke within her in presence of the secret which the ricketydeal table so badly guarded. She remained bending over the papers,trying to understand them without touching them, in a state of greatemotion, when the shrill song of the chaffinch, on whose cage streameda ray of sunshine, made her start. She closed the drawer. It was abase thing that she had contemplated, she thought.Then, as she lingered by the window, reflecting that she ought to goand ask counsel of Abbe Roustan, who was a very sensible man, she sawa crowd of people round a stretcher in the market square below. Thenight was falling, still she distinctly recognised Cadine weeping inthe midst of the crowd; while Florent and Claude, whose boots werewhite with dust, stood together talking earnestly at the edge of thefootway. She hurried downstairs again, surprised to see them back sosoon, and scarcely had she reached her counter when Mademoiselle Sagetentered the shop."They have found that scamp of a Marjolin in the cellar, with his headsplit open," exclaimed the old maid. "Won't you come to see him,Madame Quenu?"Lisa crossed the road to look at him. The young fellow was lying onhis back on the stretcher, looking very pale. His eyes were closed,and a stiff wisp of his fair hair was clotted with blood. Thebystanders, however, declared that there was no serious harm done,and, besides, the scamp had only himself to blame, for he was alwaysplaying all sorts of wild pranks in the cellars. It was generallysupposed that he had been trying to jump over one of the stone blocks--one of his favourite amusements--and had fallen with his headagainst the slab."I dare say that hussy there gave him a shove," remarked MademoiselleSaget, pointing to Cadine, who was weeping. "They are always larkingtogether."Meantime the fresh air had restored Marjolin to consciousness, and heopened his eyes in wide astonishment. He looked round at everybody,and then, observing Lisa bending over him, he gently smiled at herwith an expression of mingled humility and affection. He seemed tohave forgotten all that had happened. Lisa, feeling relieved, saidthat he ought to be taken to the hospital at once, and promised to goand see him there, and take him some oranges and biscuits. However,Marjolin's head had fallen back, and when the stretcher was carriedaway Cadine followed it, with her flat basket slung round her neck,and her hot tears rolling down upon the bunches of violets in theirmossy bed. She certainly had no thoughts for the flowers that she wasthus scalding with her bitter grief.As Lisa went back to her shop, she heard Claude say, as he shook handswith Florent and parted from him: "Ah! the confounded young scamp!He's quite spoiled my day for me! Still, we had a very enjoyable time,didn't we?"Claude and Florent had returned both worried and happy, bringing withthem the pleasant freshness of the country air. Madame Francois haddisposed of all her vegetables that morning before daylight; and theyhad all three gone to the Golden Compasses, in the Rue Montorgueil, toget the cart. Here, in the middle of Paris, they found a foretaste ofthe country. Behind the Restaurant Philippe, with its frontage of giltwoodwork rising to the first floor, there was a yard like that of afarm, dirty, teeming with life, reeking with the odour of manure andstraw. Bands of fowls were pecking at the soft ground. Sheds andstaircases and galleries of greeny wood clung to the old housesaround, and at the far end, in a shanty of big beams, was Balthazar,harnessed to the cart, and eating the oats in his nosebag. He wentdown the Rue Montorgueil at a slow trot, seemingly well pleased toreturn to Nanterre so soon. However, he was not going home without aload. Madame Francois had a contract with the company which undertookthe scavenging of the markets, and twice a week she carried off withher a load of leaves, forked up from the mass of refuse which litteredthe square. It made excellent manure. In a few minutes the cart wasfilled to overflowing. Claude and Florent stretched themselves out onthe deep bed of greenery; Madame Francois grasped her reins, andBalthazar went off at his slow, steady pace, his head somewhat bent byreason of there being so many passengers to pull along.This excursion had been talked of for a long time past. MadameFrancois laughed cheerily. She was partial to the two men, andpromised them an omelette au lard as had never been eaten, said she,in "that villainous Paris." Florent and Claude revelled in the thoughtof this day of lounging idleness which as yet had scarcely begun todawn. Nanterre seemed to be some distant paradise into which theywould presently enter."Are you quite comfortable?" Madame Francois asked as the cart turnedinto the Rue du Pont Neuf.Claude declared that their couch was as soft as a bridal bed. Lying ontheir backs, with their hands crossed under their heads, both men werelooking up at the pale sky from which the stars were vanishing. Allalong the Rue de Rivoli they kept unbroken silence, waiting till theyshould have got clear of the houses, and listening to the worthy womanas she chattered to Balthazar: "Take your time, old man," she said tohim in kindly tones. "We're in no hurry; we shall be sure to get thereat last."On reaching the Champs Elysees, when the artist saw nothing but tree-tops on either side of him, and the great green mass of the Tuileriesgardens in the distance, he woke up, as it were, and began to talk.When the cart had passed the end of the Rue du Roule he had caught aglimpse of the side entrance of Saint Eustache under the giant roofingof one of the market covered-ways. He was constantly referring to thisview of the church, and tried to give it a symbolical meaning."It's an odd mixture," he said, "that bit of church framed round by anavenue of cast iron. The one will kill the other; the iron will slaythe stone, and the time is not very far off. Do you believe in chance,Florent? For my part, I don't think that it was any mere chance ofposition that set a rose-window of Saint Eustache right in the middleof the central markets. No; there's a whole manifesto in it. It ismodern art, realism, naturalism--whatever you like to call it--thathas grown up and dominates ancient art. Don't you agree with me?"Then, as Florent still kept silence, Claude continued: "Besides, thatchurch is a piece of bastard architecture, made up of the dying gaspof the middle ages, and the first stammering of the Renaissance. Haveyou noticed what sort of churches are built nowadays? They resembleall kinds of things--libraries, observatories, pigeon-cotes, barracks;and surely no one can imagine that the Deity dwells in such places.The pious old builders are all dead and gone; and it would be betterto cease erecting those hideous carcasses of stone, in which we haveno belief to enshrine. Since the beginning of the century there hasonly been one large original pile of buildings erected in Paris--apile in accordance with modern developments--and that's the centralmarkets. You hear me, Florent? Ah! they are a fine bit of building,though they but faintly indicate what we shall see in the twentiethcentury! And so, you see, Saint Eustache is done for! It stands therewith its rose-windows, deserted by worshippers, while the marketsspread out by its side and teem with noisy life. Yes! that's how Iunderstand it all, my friend.""Ah! Monsieur Claude," said Madame Francois, laughing, "the woman whocut your tongue-string certainly earned her money. Look at Balthazarlaying his ears back to listen to you. Come, come, get along,Balthazar!"The cart was slowly making its way up the incline. At this early hourof the morning the avenue, with its double lines of iron chairs oneither pathway, and its lawns, dotted with flowerbeds and clumps ofshrubbery, stretching away under the blue shadows of the trees, wasquite deserted; however, at the Rond-Point a lady and gentleman onhorseback passed the cart at a gentle trot. Florent, who had madehimself a pillow with a bundle of cabbage-leaves, was still gazing atthe sky, in which a far-stretching rosy glow was appearing. Every nowand then he would close his eyes, the better to enjoy the fresh breezeof the morning as it fanned his face. He was so happy to escape fromthe markets, and travel on through the pure air, that he remainedspeechless, and did not even listen to what was being said around him."And then, too, what fine jokers are those fellows who imprison art ina toy-box!" resumed Claude, after a pause. "They are always repeatingthe same idiotic words: 'You can't create art out of science,' saysone; 'Mechanical appliances kill poetry,' says another; and a pack offools wail over the fate of the flowers, as though anybody wished theflowers any harm! I'm sick of all such twaddle; I should like toanswer all that snivelling with some work of open defiance. I shouldtake a pleasure in shocking those good people. Shall I tell you whatwas the finest thing I ever produced since I first began to work, andthe one which I recall with the greatest pleasure? It's quite a story.When I was at my Aunt Lisa's on Christmas Eve last year that idiot ofan Auguste, the assistant, was setting out the shop-window. Well, hequite irritated me by the weak, spiritless way in which he arrangedthe display; and at last I requested him to take himself off, sayingthat I would group the things myself in a proper manner. You see, Ihad plenty of bright colours to work with--the red of the tongues, theyellow of the hams, the blue of the paper shavings, the rosy pink ofthe things that had been cut into, the green of the sprigs of heath,and the black of the black-puddings--ah! a magnificent black, which Ihave never managed to produce on my palette. And naturally, thecrepine, the small sausages, the chitterlings, and the crumbedtrotters provided me with delicate greys and browns. I produced aperfect work of art. I took the dishes, the plates, the pans, and thejars, and arranged the different colours; and I devised a wonderfulpicture of still life, with subtle scales of tints leading up tobrilliant flashes of colour. The red tongues seemed to thrustthemselves out like greedy flames, and the black-puddings, surroundedby pale sausages, suggested a dark night fraught with terribleindigestion. I had produced, you see, a picture symbolical of thegluttony of Christmas Eve, when people meet and sup--the midnightfeasting, the ravenous gorging of stomachs void and faint after allthe singing of hymns.[*] At the top of everything a huge turkeyexhibited its white breast, marbled blackly by the truffles showingthrough its skin. It was something barbaric and superb, suggesting apaunch amidst a halo of glory; but there was such a cutting, sarcastictouch about it all that people crowded to the window, alarmed by thefierce flare of the shop-front. When my aunt Lisa came back from thekitchen she was quite frightened, and thought I'd set the fat in theshop on fire; and she considered the appearance of the turkey soindelicate that she turned me out of the place while Augustere-arranged the window after his own idiotic fashion. Such brutes willnever understand the language of a red splotch by the side of a greyone. Ah, well! that was my masterpiece. I have never done anythingbetter."[*] An allusion to the "midnight mass" usually celebrated in RomanCatholic churches on Christmas Eve.--Translator.He relapsed into silence, smiling and dwelling with gratification onthis reminiscence. The cart had now reached the Arc de Triomphe, andstrong currents of air swept from the avenues across the expanse ofopen ground. Florent sat up, and inhaled with zest the first odours ofgrass wafted from the fortifications. He turned his back on Paris,anxious to behold the country in the distance. At the corner of theRue de Longchamp, Madame Francois pointed out to him the spot whereshe had picked him up. This rendered him thoughtful, and he gazed ather as she sat there, so healthy-looking and serene, with her armsslightly extended so as to grasp the reins. She looked even handsomerthan Lisa, with her neckerchief tied over her head, her robust glow ofhealth, and her brusque, kindly air. When she gave a slight cluck withher tongue, Balthazar pricked up his ears and rattled down the road ata quicker pace.On arriving at Nanterre, the cart turned to the left into a narrowlane, skirted some blank walls, and finally came to a standstill atthe end of a sort of blind alley. It was the end of the world, MadameFrancois used to say. The load of vegetable leaves now had to bedischarged. Claude and Florent would not hear of the journeymangardener, who was planting lettuces, leaving his work, but armedthemselves with pitchforks and proceeded to toss the leaves into themanure pit. This occupation afforded them much amusement. Claude hadquite a liking for manure, since it symbolises the world and its life.The strippings and parings of the vegetables, the scourings of themarkets, the refuse that fell from that colossal table, remained fullof life, and returned to the spot where the vegetables had previouslysprouted, to warm and nourish fresh generations of cabbages, turnips,and carrots. They rose again in fertile crops, and once more went tospread themselves out upon the market square. Paris rotted everything,and returned everything to the soil, which never wearied of repairingthe ravages of death."Ah!" exclaimed Claude, as he plied his fork for the last time,"here's a cabbage-stalk that I'm sure I recognise. It has grown up atleast half a score of times in that corner yonder by the apricottree."This remark made Florent laugh. But he soon became grave again, andstrolled slowly through the kitchen garden, while Claude made a sketchof the stable, and Madame Francois got breakfast ready. The kitchengarden was a long strip of ground, divided in the middle by a narrowpath; it rose slightly, and at the top end, on raising the head, youcould perceive the low barracks of Mont Valerien. Green hedgesseparated it from other plots of land, and these lofty walls ofhawthorn fringed the horizon with a curtain of greenery in such wisethat of all the surrounding country Mont Valerien alone seemed to riseinquisitively on tip-toe in order to peer into Madame Francois'sclose. Great peacefulness came from the countryside which could notbe seen. Along the kitchen garden, between the four hedges, the Maysun shone with a languid heat, a silence disturbed only by the buzzingof insects, a somnolence suggestive of painless parturition. Every nowand then a faint cracking sound, a soft sigh, made one fancy that onecould hear the vegetables sprout into being. The patches of spinachand sorrel, the borders of radishes, carrots, and turnips, the beds ofpotatoes and cabbages, spread out in even regularity, displaying theirdark leaf-mould between their tufts of greenery. Farther away, thetrenched lettuces, onions, leeks, and celery, planted by line in longstraight rows, looked like soldiers on parade; while the peas andbeans were beginning to twine their slender tendrils round a forest ofsticks, which, when June came, they would transform into a thick andverdant wood. There was not a weed to be seen. The garden resembledtwo parallel strips of carpet of a geometrical pattern of green on areddish ground, which were carefully swept every morning. Borders ofthyme grew like greyish fringe along each side of the pathway.Florent paced backwards and forwards amidst the perfume of the thyme,which the sun was warming. He felt profoundly happy in thepeacefulness and cleanliness of the garden. For nearly a year past hehad only seen vegetables bruised and crushed by the jolting of themarket-carts; vegetables torn up on the previous evening, and stillbleeding. He rejoiced to find them at home, in peace in the darkmould, and sound in every part. The cabbages had a bulky, prosperousappearance; the carrots looked bright and gay; and the lettuceslounged in line with an air of careless indolence. And as he looked atthem all, the markets which he had left behind him that morning seemedto him like a vast mortuary, an abode of death, where only corpsescould be found, a charnel-house reeking with foul smells andputrefaction. He slackened his steps, and rested in that kitchengarden, as after a long perambulation amidst deafening noises andrepulsive odours. The uproar and the sickening humidity of the fishmarket had departed from him; and he felt as though he were being bornanew in the pure fresh air. Claude was right, he thought. The marketswere a sphere of death. The soil was the life, the eternal cradle, thehealth of the world."The omelet's ready!" suddenly cried Madame Francois.When they were all three seated round the table in the kitchen, withthe door thrown open to the sunshine, they ate their breakfast withsuch light-hearted gaiety that Madame Francois looked at Florent inamazement, repeating between each mouthful: "You're quite altered.You're ten years younger. It is that villainous Paris which makes youseem so gloomy. You've got a little sunshine in your eyes now. Ah!those big towns do one's health no good, you ought to come and livehere."Claude laughed, and retorted that Paris was a glorious place. He stuckup for it and all that belonged to it, even to its gutters; though atthe same time retaining a keen affection for the country.In the afternoon Madame Francois and Florent found themselves alone atthe end of the garden, in a corner planted with a few fruit trees.Seated on the ground, they talked somewhat seriously together. Thegood woman advised Florent with an affectionate and quite maternalkindness. She asked him endless questions about his life, and hisintentions for the future, and begged him to remember that he mightalways count upon her, if ever he thought that she could in theslightest degree contribute to his happiness. Florent was deeplytouched. No woman had ever spoken to him in that way before. MadameFrancois seemed to him like some healthy, robust plant that had grownup with the vegetables in the leaf-mould of the garden; while theLisas, the Normans, and other pretty women of the markets appeared tohim like flesh of doubtful freshness decked out for exhibition. Hehere enjoyed several hours of perfect well-being, delivered from allthat reek of food which sickened him in the markets, and reviving tonew life amidst the fertile atmosphere of the country, like thatcabbage stalk which Claude declared he had seen sprout up more thanhalf a score of times.The two men took leave of Madame Francois at about five o'clock. Theyhad decided to walk back to Paris; and the market gardener accompaniedthem into the lane. As she bade good-bye to Florent, she kept his handin her own for a moment, and said gently: "If ever anything happens totrouble you, remember to come to me."For a quarter of an hour Florent walked on without speaking, alreadygetting gloomy again, and reflecting that he was leaving health behindhim. The road to Courbevoie was white with dust. However, both menwere fond of long walks and the ringing of stout boots on the hardground. Little clouds of dust rose up behind their heels at everystep, while the rays of the sinking sun darted obliquely over theavenue, lengthening their shadows in such wise that their headsreached the other side of the road, and journeyed along the oppositefootway.Claude, swinging his arms, and taking long, regular strides,complacently watched these two shadows, whilst enjoying the rhythmicalcadence of his steps, which he accentuated by a motion of hisshoulders. Presently, however, as though just awaking from a dream, heexclaimed: "Do you know the 'Battle of the Fat and the Thin'?"Florent, surprised by the question, replied in the negative; andthereupon Claude waxed enthusiastic, talking of that series of printsin very eulogical fashion. He mentioned certain incidents: the Fat, soswollen that they almost burst, preparing their evening debauch, whilethe Thin, bent double by fasting, looked in from the street with theappearance of envious laths; and then, again, the Fat, with hangingcheeks, driving off one of the Thin, who had been audacious enough tointroduce himself into their midst in lowly humility, and who lookedlike a ninepin amongst a population of balls.In these designs Claude detected the entire drama of human life, andhe ended by classifying men into Fat and Thin, two hostile groups, oneof which devours the other, and grows fat and sleek and enjoys itself."Cain," said he, "was certainly one of the Fat, and Abel one of theThin. Ever since that first murder, there have been rampant appetiteswhich have drained the life-blood of small eaters. It's a continualpreying of the stronger upon the weaker; each swallowing hisneighbour, and then getting swallowed in his turn. Beware of the Fat,my friend."He relapsed into silence for a moment, still watching their twoshadows, which the setting sun elongated more than ever. Then hemurmured: "You see, we belong to the Thin--you and I. Those who are nomore corpulent than we are don't take up much room in the sunlight,eh?"Florent glanced at the two shadows, and smiled. But Claude waxedangry, and exclaimed: "You make a mistake if you think it is alaughing matter. For my own part, I greatly suffer from being one ofthe Thin. If I were one of the Fat, I could paint at my ease; I shouldhave a fine studio, and sell my pictures for their weight in gold.But, instead of that, I'm one of the Thin; and I have to grind my lifeout in producing things which simply make the Fat ones shrug theirshoulders. I shall die of it all in the end, I'm sure of it, with myskin clinging to my bones, and so flattened that they will be able tobury me between two leaves of a book. And you, too, you are one of theThin, a wonderful one; the very king of Thin, in fact! Do you rememberyour quarrel with the fish-wives? It was magnificent; all thosecolossal bosoms flying at your scraggy breast! Oh! they were simplyacting from natural instinct; they were pursuing one of the Thin justas cats pursue a mouse. The Fat, you know, have an instinctive hatredof the Thin, to such an extent that they must needs drive the latterfrom their sight, either by means of their teeth or their feet. Andthat is why, if I were in your place, I should take my precautions.The Quenus belong to the Fat, and so do the Mehudins; indeed, you havenone but Fat ones around you. I should feel uneasy under suchcircumstances.""And what about Gavard, and Mademoiselle Saget, and your friendMarjolin?" asked Florent, still smiling."Oh, if you like, I will classify all our acquaintances for you,"replied Claude. "I've had their heads in a portfolio in my studio fora long time past, with memoranda of the order to which they belong.Gavard is one of the Fat, but of the kind which pretends to belong tothe Thin. The variety is by no means uncommon. Mademoiselle Saget andMadame Lecoeur belong to the Thin, but to a variety which is much tobe feared--the Thin ones whom envy drives to despair, and who arecapable of anything in their craving to fatten themselves. My friendMarjolin, little Cadine, and La Sarriette are three Fat ones, stillinnocent, however, and having nothing but the guileless hunger ofyouth. I may remark that the Fat, so long as they've not grown old,are charming creatures. Monsieur Lebigre is one of the Fat--don't youthink so? As for your political friends, Charvet, Clemence, Logre, andLacaille, they mostly belong to the Thin. I only except that biganimal Alexandre, and that prodigy Robine, who has caused me a vastamount of annoyance."The artist continued to talk in this strain from the Pont de Neuillyto the Arc de Triomphe. He returned to some of those whom he hadalready mentioned, and completed their portraits with a fewcharacteristic touches. Logre, he said, was one of the Thin whosebelly had been placed between his shoulders. Beautiful Lisa was allstomach, and the beautiful Norman all bosom. Mademoiselle Saget, inher earlier life, must have certainly lost some opportunity to fattenherself, for she detested the Fat, while, at the same time, shedespised the Thin. As for Gavard, he was compromising his position asone of the Fat, and would end by becoming as flat as a bug."And what about Madame Francois?" Florent asked.Claude seemed much embarrassed by this question. He cast about for ananswer, and at last stammered:"Madame Francois, Madame Francois--well, no, I really don't know; Inever thought about classifying her. But she's a dear good soul, andthat's quite sufficient. She's neither one of the Fat nor one of theThin!"They both laughed. They were now in front of the Arc de Triomphe. Thesun, over by the hills of Suresnes, was so low on the horizon thattheir colossal shadows streaked the whiteness of the great structureeven above the huge groups of statuary, like strokes made with a pieceof charcoal. This increased Claude's merriment, he waved his arms andbent his body; and then, as he started on his way again, he said; "Didyou notice--just as the sun set our two heads shot up to the sky!"But Florent no longer smiled. Paris was grasping him again, that Pariswhich now frightened him so much, after having cost him so many tearsat Cayenne. When he reached the markets night was falling, and therewas a suffocating smell. He bent his head as he once more returned tothe nightmare of endless food, whilst preserving the sweet yet sadrecollection of that day of bright health odorous with the perfume ofthyme.
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