Chapter I

by Emile Zola

　　Amidst the deep silence and solitude prevailing in the avenue severalmarket gardeners' carts were climbing the slope which led towardsParis, and the fronts of the houses, asleep behind the dim lines ofelms on either side of the road, echoed back the rhythmical jolting ofthe wheels. At the Neuilly bridge a cart full of cabbages and anotherfull of peas had joined the eight waggons of carrots and turnipscoming down from Nanterre; and the horses, left to themselves, hadcontinued plodding along with lowered heads, at a regular though lazypace, which the ascent of the slope now slackened. The sleepingwaggoners, wrapped in woollen cloaks, striped black and grey, andgrasping the reins slackly in their closed hands, were stretched atfull length on their stomachs atop of the piles of vegetables. Everynow and then, a gas lamp, following some patch of gloom, would lightup the hobnails of a boot, the blue sleeve of a blouse, or the peak ofa cap peering out of the huge florescence of vegetables--red bouquetsof carrots, white bouquets of turnips, and the overflowing greenery ofpeas and cabbages.And all along the road, and along the neighbouring roads, in front andbehind, the distant rumbling of vehicles told of the presence ofsimilar contingents of the great caravan which was travelling onwardthrough the gloom and deep slumber of that matutinal hour, lulling thedark city to continued repose with its echoes of passing food.Madame Francois's horse, Balthazar, an animal that was far too fat,led the van. He was plodding on, half asleep and wagging his ears,when suddenly, on reaching the Rue de Longchamp, he quivered with fearand came to a dead stop. The horses behind, thus unexpectedly checked,ran their heads against the backs of the carts in front of them, andthe procession halted amidst a clattering of bolts and chains and theoaths of the awakened waggoners. Madame Francois, who sat in front ofher vehicle, with her back to a board which kept her vegetables inposition, looked down; but, in the dim light thrown to the left by asmall square lantern, which illuminated little beyond one ofBalthazar's sheeny flanks, she could distinguish nothing."Come, old woman, let's get on!" cried one of the men, who had raisedhimself to a kneeling position amongst his turnips; "it's only somedrunken sot."Madame Francois, however, had bent forward and on her right hand hadcaught sight of a black mass, lying almost under the horse's hoofs,and blocking the road."You wouldn't have us drive over a man, would you?" said she, jumpingto the ground.It was indeed a man lying at full length upon the road, with his armsstretched out and his face in the dust. He seemed to be remarkablytall, but as withered as a dry branch, and the wonder was thatBalthazar had not broken him in half with a blow from his hoof. MadameFrancois thought that he was dead; but on stooping and taking hold ofone of his hands, she found that it was quite warm."Poor fellow!" she murmured softly.The waggoners, however, were getting impatient."Hurry up, there!" said the man kneeling amongst the turnips, in ahoarse voice. "He's drunk till he can hold no more, the hog! Shove himinto the gutter."Meantime, the man on the road had opened his eyes. He looked at MadameFrancois with a startled air, but did not move. She herself nowthought that he must indeed be drunk."You mustn't stop here," she said to him, "or you'll get run over andkilled. Where were you going?""I don't know," replied the man in a faint voice.Then, with an effort and an anxious expression, he added: "I was goingto Paris; I fell down, and don't remember any more."Madame Francois could now see him more distinctly, and he was truly apitiable object, with his ragged black coat and trousers, through therents in which you could espy his scraggy limbs. Underneath a blackcloth cap, which was drawn low over his brows, as though he wereafraid of being recognised, could be seen two large brown eyes,gleaming with peculiar softness in his otherwise stern and harassedcountenance. It seemed to Madame Francois that he was in far toofamished a condition to have got drunk."And what part of Paris were you going to?" she continued.The man did not reply immediately. This questioning seemed to distresshim. He appeared to be thinking the matter over, but at last saidhesitatingly, "Over yonder, towards the markets."He had now, with great difficulty, got to his feet again, and seemedanxious to resume his journey. But Madame Francois noticed that hetottered, and clung for support to one of the shafts of her waggon."Are you tired?" she asked him."Yes, very tired," he replied.Then she suddenly assumed a grumpy tone, as though displeased, and,giving him a push, exclaimed: "Look sharp, then, and climb into mycart. You've made us lose a lot of time. I'm going to the markets, andI'll turn you out there with my vegetables."Then, as the man seemed inclined to refuse her offer, she pushed himup with her stout arms, and bundled him down upon the turnips andcarrots."Come, now, don't give us any more trouble," she cried angrily. "Youare quite enough to provoke one, my good fellow. Don't I tell you thatI'm going to the markets? Sleep away up there. I'll wake you when wearrive."She herself then clambered into the cart again, and settled herselfwith her back against the board, grasping the reins of Balthazar, whostarted off drowsily, swaying his ears once more. The other waggonsfollowed, and the procession resumed its lazy march through thedarkness, whilst the rhythmical jolting of the wheels again awoke theechoes of the sleepy house fronts, and the waggoners, wrapped in theircloaks, dozed off afresh. The one who had called to Madame Francoisgrowled out as he lay down: "As if we'd nothing better to do than pickup every drunken sot we come across! You're a scorcher, old woman!"The waggons rumbled on, and the horses picked their own way, withdrooping heads. The stranger whom Madame Francois had befriended waslying on his stomach, with his long legs lost amongst the turnipswhich filled the back part of the cart, whilst his face was buriedamidst the spreading piles of carrot bunches. With weary, extendedarms he clutched hold of his vegetable couch in fear of being thrownto the ground by one of the waggon's jolts, and his eyes were fixed onthe two long lines of gas lamps which stretched away in front of himtill they mingled with a swarm of other lights in the distance atop ofthe slope. Far away on the horizon floated a spreading, whitishvapour, showing where Paris slept amidst the luminous haze of allthose flamelets."I come from Nanterre, and my name's Madame Francois," said themarket gardener presently. "Since my poor man died I go to the marketsevery morning myself. It's a hard life, as you may guess. And who areyou?""My name's Florent, I come from a distance," replied the stranger,with embarrassment. "Please excuse me, but I'm really so tired that itis painful to me to talk."He was evidently unwilling to say anything more, and so MadameFrancois relapsed into silence, and allowed the reins to fall looselyon the back of Balthazar, who went his way like an animal acquaintedwith every stone of the road.Meantime, with his eyes still fixed upon the far-spreading glare ofParis, Florent was pondering over the story which he had refused tocommunicate to Madame Francois. After making his escape from Cayenne,whither he had been transported for his participation in theresistance to Louis Napoleon's Coup d'Etat, he had wandered aboutDutch Guiana for a couple of years, burning to return to France, yetdreading the Imperial police. At last, however, he once more sawbefore him the beloved and mighty city which he had so keenlyregretted and so ardently longed for. He would hide himself there, hetold himself, and again lead the quiet, peaceable life that he hadlived years ago. The police would never be any the wiser; and everyonewould imagine, indeed, that he had died over yonder, across the sea.Then he thought of his arrival at Havre, where he had landed with onlysome fifteen francs tied up in a corner of his handkerchief. He hadbeen able to pay for a seat in the coach as far as Rouen, but fromthat point he had been forced to continue his journey on foot, as hehad scarcely thirty sous left of his little store. At Vernon his lastcopper had gone in bread. After that he had no clear recollection ofanything. He fancied that he could remember having slept for severalhours in a ditch, and having shown the papers with which he hadprovided himself to a gendarme; however, he had only a very confusedidea of what had happened. He had left Vernon without any breakfast,seized every now and then with hopeless despair and raging pangs whichhad driven him to munch the leaves of the hedges as he tramped along.A prey to cramp and fright, his body bent, his sight dimmed, and hisfeet sore, he had continued his weary march, ever drawn onwards in asemi-unconscious state by a vision of Paris, which, far, far away,beyond the horizon, seemed to be summoning him and waiting for him.When he at length reached Courbevoie, the night was very dark. Paris,looking like a patch of star-sprent sky that had fallen upon the blackearth, seemed to him to wear a forbidding aspect, as though angry athis return. Then he felt very faint, and his legs almost gave waybeneath him as he descended the hill. As he crossed the Neuilly bridgehe sustained himself by clinging to the parapet, and bent over andlooked at the Seine rolling inky waves between its dense, massy banks.A red lamp on the water seemed to be watching him with a sanguineouseye. And then he had to climb the hill if he would reach Paris on itssummit yonder. The hundreds of leagues which he had already travelledwere as nothing to it. That bit of a road filled him with despair. Hewould never be able, he thought, to reach yonder light crowned summit.The spacious avenue lay before him with its silence and its darkness,its lines of tall trees and low houses, its broad grey footwalks,speckled with the shadows of overhanging branches, and partedoccasionally by the gloomy gaps of side streets. The squat yellowflames of the gas lamps, standing erect at regular intervals, aloneimparted a little life to the lonely wilderness. And Florent seemed tomake no progress; the avenue appeared to grow ever longer and longer,to be carrying Paris away into the far depths of the night. At last hefancied that the gas lamps, with their single eyes, were running offon either hand, whisking the road away with them; and then, overcomeby vertigo, he stumbled and fell on the roadway like a log.Now he was lying at ease on his couch of greenery, which seemed to himsoft as a feather bed. He had slightly raised his head so as to keephis eyes on the luminous haze which was spreading above the dark roofswhich he could divine on the horizon. He was nearing his goal, carriedalong towards it, with nothing to do but to yield to the leisurelyjolts of the waggon; and, free from all further fatigue, he now onlysuffered from hunger. Hunger, indeed, had once more awoke within himwith frightful and wellnigh intolerable pangs. His limbs seemed tohave fallen asleep; he was only conscious of the existence of hisstomach, horribly cramped and twisted as by a red-hot iron. The freshodour of the vegetables, amongst which he was lying, affected him sokeenly that he almost fainted away. He strained himself against thatpiled-up mass of food with all his remaining strength, in order tocompress his stomach and silence its groans. And the nine otherwaggons behind him, with their mountains of cabbages and peas, theirpiles of artichokes, lettuces, celery, and leeks, seemed to him to beslowly overtaking him, as though to bury him whilst he was thustortured by hunger beneath an avalanche of food. Presently theprocession halted, and there was a sound of deep voices. They hadreached the barriers, and the municipal customs officers wereexamining the waggons. A moment later Florent entered Paris, in aswoon, lying atop of the carrots, with clenched teeth."Hallow! You up there!" Madame Francois called out sharply.And as the stranger made no attempt to move, she clambered up andshook him. Florent rose to a sitting posture. He had slept and nolonger felt the pangs of hunger, but was dizzy and confused."You'll help me to unload, won't you?" Madame Francois said to him, asshe made him get down.He helped her. A stout man with a felt hat on his head and a badge inthe top buttonhole of his coat was striking the ground with a stickand grumbling loudly:"Come, come, now, make haste! You must get on faster than that! Bringthe waggon a little more forward. How many yards' standing have you?Four, isn't it?"Then he gave a ticket to Madame Francois, who took some coppers out ofa little canvas bag and handed them to him; whereupon he went off tovent his impatience and tap the ground with his stick a little furtheraway. Madame Francois took hold of Balthazar's bridle and backed himso as to bring the wheels of the waggon close to the footway. Then,having marked out her four yards with some wisps of straw, afterremoving the back of the cart, she asked Florent to hand her thevegetables bunch by bunch. She arranged them sort by sort on herstanding, setting them out artistically, the "tops" forming a band ofgreenery around each pile; and it was with remarkable rapidity thatshe completed her show, which, in the gloom of early morning, lookedlike some piece of symmetrically coloured tapestry. When Florent hadhanded her a huge bunch of parsley, which he had found at the bottomof the cart, she asked him for still another service."It would be very kind of you," said she, "if you would look after mygoods while I put the horse and cart up. I'm only going a couple ofyards, to the Golden Compasses, in the Rue Montorgueil."Florent told her that she might make herself easy. He preferred toremain still, for his hunger had revived since he had begun to moveabout. He sat down and leaned against a heap of cabbages beside MadameFrancois's stock. He was all right there, he told himself, and wouldnot go further afield, but wait. His head felt empty, and he had novery clear notion as to where he was. At the beginning of September itis quite dark in the early morning. Around him lighted lanterns wereflitting or standing stationary in the depths of the gloom. He wassitting on one side of a broad street which he did not recognise; itstretched far away into the blackness of the night. He could make outnothing plainly, excepting the stock of which he had been left incharge. All around him along the market footways rose similar piles ofgoods. The middle of the roadway was blocked by huge grey tumbrels,and from one end of the street to the other a sound of heavy breathingpassed, betokening the presence of horses which the eye could notdistinguish.Shouts and calls, the noise of falling wood, or of iron chainsslipping to the ground, the heavy thud of loads of vegetablesdischarged from the waggons, and the grating of wheels as the cartswere backed against the footways, filled the yet sonorous awakening,whose near approach could be felt and heard in the throbbing gloom.Glancing over the pile of cabbages behind him. Florent caught sight ofa man wrapped like a parcel in his cloak, and snoring away with hishead upon some baskets of plums. Nearer to him, on his left, he coulddistinguish a lad, some ten years old, slumbering between two heaps ofendive, with an angelic smile on his face. And as yet there seemed tobe nothing on that pavement that was really awake except the lanternswaving from invisible arms, and flitting and skipping over the sleepof the vegetables and human beings spread out there in heaps pendingthe dawn. However, what surprised Florent was the sight of some hugepavilions on either side of the street, pavilions with lofty roofsthat seemed to expand and soar out of sight amidst a swarm of gleams.In his weakened state of mind he fancied he beheld a series ofenormous, symmetrically built palaces, light and airy as crystal,whose fronts sparkled with countless streaks of light filteringthrough endless Venetian shutters. Gleaming between the slender pillarshafts these narrow golden bars seemed like ladders of light mountingto the gloomy line of the lower roofs, and then soaring aloft tillthey reached the jumble of higher ones, thus describing the openframework of immense square halls, where in the yellow flare of thegas lights a multitude of vague, grey, slumbering things was gatheredtogether.At last Florent turned his head to look about him, distressed at notknowing where he was, and filled with vague uneasiness by the sight ofthat huge and seemingly fragile vision. And now, as he raised hiseyes, he caught sight of the luminous dial and the grey massive pileof Saint Eustache's Church. At this he was much astonished. He wasclose to Saint Eustache, yet all was novel to him.However, Madame Francois had come back again, and was engaged in aheated discussion with a man who carried a sack over his shoulder andoffered to buy her carrots for a sou a bunch."Really, now, you are unreasonable, Lacaille!" said she. "You knowquite well that you will sell them again to the Parisians at four andfive sous the bunch. Don't tell me that you won't! You may have themfor two sous the bunch, if you like."Then, as the man went off, she continued: "Upon my word, I believesome people think that things grow of their own accord! Let him go andfind carrots at a sou the bunch elsewhere, tipsy scoundrel that he is!He'll come back again presently, you'll see."These last remarks were addressed to Florent. And, seating herself byhis side, Madame Francois resumed: "If you've been a long time awayfrom Paris, you perhaps don't know the new markets. They haven't beenbuilt for more than five years at the most. That pavilion you seethere beside us is the flower and fruit market. The fish and poultrymarkets are farther away, and over there behind us come the vegetablesand the butter and cheese. There are six pavilions on this side, andon the other side, across the road, there are four more, with the meatand the tripe stalls. It's an enormous place, but it's horribly coldin the winter. They talk about pulling down the houses near the cornmarket to make room for two more pavilions. But perhaps you know allthis?""No, indeed," replied Florent; "I've been abroad. And what's the nameof that big street in front of us?""Oh, that's a new street. It's called the Rue du Pont Neuf. It leadsfrom the Seine through here to the Rue Montmartre and the RueMontorgueil. You would soon have recognized where you were if it hadbeen daylight."Madame Francois paused and rose, for she saw a woman heading down toexamine her turnips. "Ah, is that you, Mother Chantemesse?" she saidin a friendly way.Florent meanwhile glanced towards the Rue Montorgueil. It was therethat a body of police officers had arrested him on the night ofDecember 4.[*] He had been walking along the Boulevard Montmartre atabout two o'clock, quietly making his way through the crowd, andsmiling at the number of soldiers that the Elysee had sent into thestreets to awe the people, when the military suddenly began making aclean sweep of the thoroughfare, shooting folks down at close rangeduring a quarter of an hour. Jostled and knocked to the ground,Florent fell at the corner of the Rue Vivienne and knew nothingfurther of what happened, for the panic-stricken crowd, in their wildterror of being shot, trampled over his body. Presently, hearingeverything quiet, he made an attempt to rise; but across him there laya young woman in a pink bonnet, whose shawl had slipped aside,allowing her chemisette, pleated in little tucks, to be seen. Twobullets had pierced the upper part of her bosom; and when Florentgently removed the poor creature to free his legs, two streamlets ofblood oozed from her wounds on to his hands. Then he sprang up with asudden bound, and rushed madly away, hatless and with his hands stillwet with blood. Until evening he wandered about the streets, with hishead swimming, ever seeing the young woman lying across his legs withher pale face, her blue staring eyes, her distorted lips, and herexpression of astonishment at thus meeting death so suddenly. He was ashy, timid fellow. Albeit thirty years old he had never dared to starewomen in the face; and now, for the rest of his life, he was to havethat one fixed in his heart and memory. He felt as though he had lostsome loved one of his own.[*] 1851. Two days after the Coup d'Etat.--Translator.In the evening, without knowing how he had got there, still dazed andhorrified as he was by the terrible scenes of the afternoon, he hadfound himself at a wine shop in the Rue Montorgueil, where several menwere drinking and talking of throwing up barricades. He went away withthem, helped them to tear up a few paving-stones, and seated himselfon the barricade, weary with his long wandering through the streets,and reflecting that he would fight when the soldiers came up. However,he had not even a knife with him, and was still bareheaded. Towardseleven o'clock he dozed off, and in his sleep could see the two holesin the dead woman's white chemisette glaring at him like eyes reddenedby tears and blood. When he awoke he found himself in the grasp offour police officers, who were pummelling him with their fists. Themen who had built the barricade had fled. The police officers treatedhim with still greater violence, and indeed almost strangled him whenthey noticed that his hands were stained with blood. It was the bloodof the young woman.Florent raised his eyes to the luminous dial of Saint Eustache withhis mind so full of these recollections that he did not notice theposition of the pointers. It was, however, nearly four o'clock. Themarkets were as yet wrapped in sleep. Madame Francois was stilltalking to old Madame Chantemesse, both standing and arguing about theprice of turnips, and Florent now called to mind how narrowly he hadescaped being shot over yonder by the wall of Saint Eustache. Adetachment of gendarmes had just blown out the brains of five unhappyfellows caught at a barricade in the Rue Greneta. The five corpseswere lying on the footway, at a spot where he thought he could nowdistinguish a heap of rosy radishes. He himself had escaped being shotmerely because the policemen only carried swords. They took him to aneighbouring police station and gave the officer in charge a scrap ofpaper, on which were these words written in pencil: "Taken with blood-stained hands. Very dangerous." Then he had been dragged from stationto station till the morning came. The scrap of paper accompanied himwherever he went. He was manacled and guarded as though he were araving madman. At the station in the Rue de la Lingerie some tipsysoldiers wanted to shoot him; and they had already lighted a lanternwith that object when the order arrived for the prisoners to be takento the depot of the Prefecture of Police. Two days afterwards he foundhimself in a casemate of the fort of Bicetre. Ever since then he hadbeen suffering from hunger. He had felt hungry in the casemate, andthe pangs of hunger had never since left him. A hundred men were pentin the depths of that cellar-like dungeon, where, scarce able tobreathe, they devoured the few mouthfuls of bread that were thrown tothem, like so many captive wild beasts.When Florent was brought before an investigating magistrate, withoutanyone to defend him, and without any evidence being adduced, he wasaccused of belonging to a secret society; and when he swore that thiswas untrue, the magistrate produced the scrap of paper from amongstthe documents before him: "Taken with blood-stained hands. Verydangerous." That was quite sufficient. He was condemned totransportation. Six weeks afterwards, one January night, a gaolerawoke him and locked him up in a courtyard with more than four hundredother prisoners. An hour later this first detachment started for thepontoons and exile, handcuffed and guarded by a double file ofgendarmes with loaded muskets. They crossed the Austerlitz bridge,followed the line of the boulevards, and so reached the terminus ofthe Western Railway line. It was a joyous carnival night. The windowsof the restaurants on the boulevards glittered with lights. At the topof the Rue Vivienne, just at the spot where he ever saw the youngwoman lying dead--that unknown young woman whose image he always borewith him--he now beheld a large carriage in which a party of maskedwomen, with bare shoulders and laughing voices, were venting theirimpatience at being detained, and expressing their horror of thatendless procession of convicts. The whole of the way from Paris toHavre the prisoners never received a mouthful of bread or a drink ofwater. The officials had forgotten to give them their rations beforestarting, and it was not till thirty-six hours afterwards, when theyhad been stowed away in the hold of the frigate Canada, that they atlast broke their fast.No, Florent had never again been free from hunger. He recalled all thepast to mind, but could not recollect a single hour of satiety. He hadbecome dry and withered; his stomach seemed to have shrunk; his skinclung to his bones. And now that he was back in Paris once more, hefound it fat and sleek and flourishing, teeming with food in the midstof the darkness. He had returned to it on a couch of vegetables; helingered in its midst encompassed by unknown masses of food whichstill and ever increased and disquieted him. Had that happy carnivalnight continued throughout those seven years, then? Once again he sawthe glittering windows on the boulevards, the laughing women, theluxurious, greedy city which he had quitted on that far-away Januarynight; and it seemed to him that everything had expanded and increasedin harmony with those huge markets, whose gigantic breathing, stillheavy from the indigestion of the previous day, he now began to hear.Old Mother Chantemesse had by this time made up her mind to buy adozen bunches of turnips. She put them in her apron, which she heldclosely pressed to her person, thus making herself look yet morecorpulent than she was; and for some time longer she lingered there,still gossiping in a drawling voice. When at last she went away,Madame Francois again sat down by the side of Florent."Poor old Mother Chantemesse!" she said; "she must be at leastseventy-two. I can remember her buying turnips of my father when I wasa mere chit. And she hasn't a relation in the world; no one but ayoung hussy whom she picked up I don't know where and who does nothingbut bring her trouble. Still, she manages to live, selling things bythe ha'p'orth and clearing her couple of francs profit a day. For myown part, I'm sure that I could never spend my days on the foot-pavement in this horrid Paris! And she hasn't even any relationshere!""You have some relations in Paris, I suppose?" she asked presently,seeing that Florent seemed disinclined to talk.Florent did not appear to hear her. A feeling of distrust came back tohim. His head was teeming with old stories of the police, stories ofspies prowling about at every street corner, and of women selling thesecrets which they managed to worm out of the unhappy fellows theydeluded. Madame Francois was sitting close beside him and certainlylooked perfectly straightforward and honest, with her big calm face,above which was bound a black and yellow handkerchief. She seemedabout five and thirty years of age, and was somewhat stoutly built,with a certain hardy beauty due to her life in the fresh air. A pairof black eyes, which beamed with kindly tenderness, softened the moremasculine characteristics of her person. She certainly wasinquisitive, but her curiosity was probably well meant."I've a nephew in Paris," she continued, without seeming at alloffended by Florent's silence. "He's turned out badly though, and hasenlisted. It's a pleasant thing to have somewhere to go to and stayat, isn't it? I dare say there's a big surprise in store for yourrelations when they see you. But it's always a pleasure to welcome oneof one's own people back again, isn't it?"She kept her eyes fixed upon him while she spoke, doubtlesscompassionating his extreme scragginess; fancying, too, that there wasa "gentleman" inside those old black rags, and so not daring to slip apiece of silver into his hand. At last, however, she timidly murmured:"All the same, if you should happen just at present to be in want ofanything----"But Florent checked her with uneasy pride. He told her that he hadeverything he required, and had a place to go to. She seemed quitepleased to hear this, and, as though to tranquillise herselfconcerning him, repeated several times: "Well, well, in that caseyou've only got to wait till daylight."A large bell at the corner of the fruit market, just over Florent'shead, now began to ring. The slow regular peals seemed to graduallydissipate the slumber that yet lingered all around. Carts were stillarriving, and the shouts of the waggoners, the cracking of theirwhips, and the grinding of the paving-stones beneath the iron-boundwheels and the horses' shoes sounded with an increasing din. The cartscould now only advance by a series of spasmodic jolts, and stretchedin a long line, one behind the other, till they were lost to sight inthe distant darkness, whence a confused roar ascended.Unloading was in progress all along the Rue du Pont Neuf, the vehiclesbeing drawn up close to the edge of the footways, while their teamsstood motionless in close order as at a horse fair. Florent feltinterested in one enormous tumbrel which was piled up with magnificentcabbages, and had only been backed to the kerb with the greatestdifficulty. Its load towered above the lofty gas lamp whose brightlight fell full upon the broad leaves which looked like pieces of darkgreen velvet, scalloped and goffered. A young peasant girl, somesixteen years old, in a blue linen jacket and cap, had climbed on tothe tumbrel, where, buried in the cabbages to her shoulders, she tookthem one by one and threw them to somebody concealed in the shadebelow. Every now and then the girl would slip and vanish, overwhelmedby an avalanche of the vegetables, but her rosy nose soon reappearedamidst the teeming greenery, and she broke into a laugh while thecabbages again flew down between Florent and the gas lamp. He countedthem mechanically as they fell. When the cart was emptied he feltworried.The piles of vegetables on the pavement now extended to the verge ofthe roadway. Between the heaps, the market gardeners left narrow pathsto enable people to pass along. The whole of the wide footway wascovered from end to end with dark mounds. As yet, in the suddendancing gleams of light from the lanterns, you only just espied theluxuriant fulness of the bundles of artichokes, the delicate green ofthe lettuces, the rosy coral of the carrots, and dull ivory of theturnips. And these gleams of rich colour flitted along the heaps,according as the lanterns came and went. The footway was now becomingpopulated: a crowd of people had awakened, and was moving hither andthither amidst the vegetables, stopping at times, and chattering andshouting. In the distance a loud voice could be heard crying, "Endive!who's got endive?" The gates of the pavilion devoted to the sale ofordinary vegetables had just been opened; and the retail dealers whohad stalls there, with white caps on their heads, fichus knotted overtheir black jackets, and skirts pinned up to keep them from gettingsoiled, now began to secure their stock for the day, depositing theirpurchases in some huge porters' baskets placed upon the ground.Between the roadway and the pavilion these baskets were to be seencoming and going on all sides, knocking against the crowded heads ofthe bystanders, who resented the pushing with coarse expressions,whilst all around was a clamour of voices growing hoarse by prolongedwrangling over a sou or two. Florent was astonished by the calmness ofthe female market gardeners, with bandanas and bronzed faces,displayed amidst all this garrulous bargaining of the markets.Behind him, on the footway of the Rue Rambuteau, fruit was being sold.Hampers and low baskets covered with canvas or straw stood there inlong lines, a strong odour of over-ripe mirabelle plums was waftedhither and thither. At last a subdued and gentle voice, which he hadheard for some time past, induced him to turn his head, and he saw acharming darksome little woman sitting on the ground and bargaining."Come now, Marcel," said she, "you'll take a hundred sous, won't you?"The man to whom she was speaking was closely wrapped in his cloak andmade no reply; however, after a silence of five minutes or more, theyoung woman returned to the charge."Come now, Marcel; a hundred sous for that basket there, and fourfrancs for the other one; that'll make nine francs altogether."Then came another interval."Well, tell me what you will take.""Ten francs. You know that well enough already; I told you so before.But what have you done with your Jules this morning, La Sarriette?"The young woman began to laugh as she took a handful of small changeout of her pocket."Oh," she replied, "Jules is still in bed. He says that men were notintended to work."She paid for the two baskets, and carried them into the fruitpavilion, which had just been opened. The market buildings stillretained their gloom-wrapped aspect of airy fragility, streaked withthe thousand lines of light that gleamed from the venetian shutters.People were beginning to pass along the broad covered streetsintersecting the pavilions, but the more distant buildings stillremained deserted amidst the increasing buzz of life on the footways.By Saint Eustache the bakers and wine sellers were taking down theirshutters, and the ruddy shops, with their gas lights flaring, showedlike gaps of fire in the gloom in which the grey house-fronts were yetsteeped. Florent noticed a baker's shop on the left-hand side of theRue Montorgueil, replete and golden with its last baking, and fanciedhe could scent the pleasant smell of the hot bread. It was now halfpast four.Madame Francois by this time had disposed of nearly all her stock. Shehad only a few bunches of carrots left when Lacaille once more madehis appearance with his sack."Well," said he, "will you take a sou now?""I knew I should see you again," the good woman quietly answered."You'd better take all I have left. There are seventeen bunches.""That makes seventeen sous.""No; thirty-four."At last they agreed to fix the price at twenty-five sous. MadameFrancois was anxious to be off."He'd been keeping his eye upon me all the time," she said to Florent,when Lacaille had gone off with the carrots in his sack. "That oldrogue runs things down all over the markets, and he often waits tillthe last peal of the bell before spending four sous in purchase. Oh,these Paris folk! They'll wrangle and argue for an hour to save half asou, and then go off and empty their purses at the wine shop."Whenever Madame Francois talked of Paris she always spoke in a tone ofdisdain, and referred to the city as though it were some ridiculous,contemptible, far-away place, in which she only condescended to setfoot at nighttime."There!" she continued, sitting down again, beside Florent, on somevegetables belonging to a neighbour, "I can get away now."Florent bent his head. He had just committed a theft. When Lacaillewent off he had caught sight of a carrot lying on the ground, andhaving picked it up he was holding it tightly in his right hand.Behind him were some bundles of celery and bunches of parsley werediffusing pungent odours which painfully affected him."Well, I'm off now!" said Madame Francois.However, she felt interested in this stranger, and could divine thathe was suffering there on that foot-pavement, from which he had neverstirred. She made him fresh offers of assistance, but he again refusedthem, with a still more bitter show of pride. He even got up andremained standing to prove that he was quite strong again. Then, asMadame Francois turned her head away, he put the carrot to his mouth.But he had to remove it for a moment, in spite of the terrible longingwhich he felt to dig his teeth into it; for Madame Francois turnedround again and looking him full in the face, began to question himwith her good-natured womanly curiosity. Florent, to avoid speaking,merely answered by nods and shakes of the head. Then, slowly andgently, he began to eat the carrot.The worthy woman was at last on the point of going off, when apowerful voice exclaimed close beside her, "Good morning, MadameFrancois."The speaker was a slim young man, with big bones and a big head. Hisface was bearded, and he had a very delicate nose and narrow sparklingeyes. He wore on his head a rusty, battered, black felt hat, and wasbuttoned up in an immense overcoat, which had once been of a softchestnut hue, but which rain had discoloured and streaked with longgreenish stains. Somewhat bent, and quivering with a nervousrestlessness which was doubtless habitual with him, he stood there ina pair of heavy laced shoes, and the shortness of his trousers alloweda glimpse of his coarse blue hose."Good morning, Monsieur Claude," the market gardener repliedcheerfully. "I expected you, you know, last Monday, and, as you didn'tcome, I've taken care of your canvas for you. I've hung it up on anail in my room.""You are really very kind, Madame Francois. I'll go to finish thatstudy of mine one of these days. I wasn't able to go on Monday. Hasyour big plum tree still got all its leaves?""Yes, indeed.""I wanted to know, because I mean to put it in a corner of thepicture. It will come in nicely by the side of the fowl house. I havebeen thinking about it all the week. What lovely vegetables are in themarket this morning! I came down very early, expecting a fine sunriseeffect upon all these heaps of cabbages."With a wave of the arm he indicated the footway."Well, well, I must be off now," said Madame Francois. "Good-bye forthe present. We shall meet again soon, I hope, Monsieur Claude."However, as she turned to go, she introduced Florent to the youngartist."This gentleman, it seems, has just come from a distance," said she."He feels quite lost in your scampish Paris. I dare say you might beof service to him."Then she at last took her departure, feeling pleased at having leftthe two men together. Claude looked at Florent with a feeling ofinterest. That tall, slight, wavy figure seemed to him original.Madame Francois's hasty presentation was in his eyes quite sufficient,and he addressed Florent with the easy familiarity of a loungeraccustomed to all sorts of chance encounters."I'll accompany you," he said; "which way are you going?"Florent felt ill at ease; he was not wont to unbosom himself soreadily. However, ever since his arrival in Paris, a question had beentrembling on his lips, and now he ventured to ask it, with the evidentfear of receiving an unfavourable reply."Is the Rue Pirouette still in existence?""Oh, yes," answered the artist. "A very curious corner of old Paris isthe Rue Pirouette. It twists and turns like a dancing girl, and thehouses bulge out like pot-bellied gluttons. I've made an etching of itthat isn't half bad. I'll show it to you when you come to see me. Isit to the Rue Pirouette that you want to go?"Florent, who felt easier and more cheerful now that he knew the streetstill existed, declared that he did not want to go there; in fact, hedid not want to go anywhere in particular. All his distrust awoke intofresh life at Claude's insistence."Oh! never mind," said the artist, "let's go to the Rue Pirouette allthe same. It has such a fine colour at night time. Come along; it'sonly a couple of yards away."Florent felt constrained to follow him, and the two men walked off,side by side, stepping over the hampers and vegetables like a coupleof old friends. On the footway of the Rue Rambuteau there were someimmense heaps of cauliflowers, symmetrically piled up like so manycannonballs. The soft-white flowers spread out like huge roses in themidst of their thick green leaves, and the piles had something of theappearance of bridal bouquets ranged in a row in colossal flowerstands. Claude stopped in front of them, venting cries of admiration.Then, on turning into the Rue Pirouette, which was just opposite, hepointed out each house to his companion, and explained his viewsconcerning it. There was only a single gas lamp, burning in a corner.The buildings, which had settled down and swollen, threw their pent-houses forward in such wise as to justify Claude's allusion to pot-bellied gluttons, whilst their gables receded, and on either side theyclung to their neighbours for support. Three or four, however,standing in gloomy recesses, appeared to be on the point of topplingforward. The solitary gas lamp illumined one which was snowy with afresh coat of whitewash, suggesting some flabby broken-down olddowager, powdered and bedaubed in the hope of appearing young. Thenthe others stretched away into the darkness, bruised, dented, andcracked, greeny with the fall of water from their roofs, anddisplaying such an extraordinary variety of attitudes and tints thatClaude could not refrain from laughing as he contemplated them.Florent, however, came to stand at the corner of the rue de Mondetour,in front of the last house but one on the left. Here the three floors,each with two shutterless windows, having little white curtainsclosely drawn, seemed wrapped in sleep; but, up above, a light couldbe seen flitting behind the curtains of a tiny gable casement.However, the sight of the shop beneath the pent-house seemed to fillFlorent with the deepest emotion. It was kept by a dealer in cookedvegetables, and was just being opened. At its far end some metal panswere glittering, while on several earthen ones in the window there wasa display of cooked spinach and endive, reduced to a paste andarranged in conical mounds from which customers were served withshovel-like carvers of white metal, only the handles of which werevisible. This sight seemed to rivet Florent to the ground withsurprise. He evidently could not recognize the place. He read the nameof the shopkeeper, Godeboeuf, which was painted on a red sign board upabove, and remained quite overcome by consternation. His arms danglingbeside him, he began to examine the cooked spinach, with thedespairing air of one on whom some supreme misfortune falls.However, the gable casement was now opened, and a little old womanleaned out of it, and looked first at the sky and then at the marketsin the distance."Ah, Mademoiselle Saget is an early riser," exclaimed Claude, who hadjust raised his head. And, turning to his companion, he added: "I oncehad an aunt living in that house. It's a regular hive of tittle-tattle! Ah, the Mehudins are stirring now, I see. There's a light onthe second floor."Florent would have liked to question his companion, but the latter'slong discoloured overcoat give him a disquieting appearance. Sowithout a word Florent followed him, whilst he went on talking aboutthe Mehudins. These Mehudins were fish-girls, it seemed; the older onewas a magnificent creature, while the younger one, who sold fresh-water fish, reminded Claude of one of Murillo's virgins, whenever hesaw her standing with her fair face amidst her carps and eels.From this Claude went on to remark with asperity that Murillo paintedlike an ignoramus. But all at once he stopped short in the middle ofthe street."Come!" he exclaimed, "tell me where it is that you want to go.""I don't want to go anywhere just at present," replied Florent inconfusion. "Let's go wherever you like."Just as they were leaving the Rue Pirouette, some one called to Claudefrom a wine shop at the corner of the street. The young man went in,dragging Florent with him. The shutters had been taken down on oneside only, and the gas was still burning in the sleepy atmosphere ofthe shop. A forgotten napkin and some cards that had been used in theprevious evening's play were still lying on the tables; and the freshbreeze that streamed in through the open doorway freshened the close,warm vinous air. The landlord, Monsieur Lebigre, was serving hiscustomers. He wore a sleeved waistcoat, and his fat regular features,fringed by an untidy beard, were still pale with sleep. Standing infront of the counter, groups of men, with heavy, tired eyes, weredrinking, coughing, and spitting, whilst trying to rouse themselves bythe aid of white wine and brandy. Amongst them Florent recognisedLacaille, whose sack now overflowed with various sorts of vegetables.He was taking his third dram with a friend, who was telling him a longstory about the purchase of a hamper of potatoes.[*] When he hademptied his glass, he went to chat with Monsieur Lebigre in a littleglazed compartment at the end of the room, where the gas had not yetbeen lighted.[*] At the Paris central markets potatoes are sold by the hamper, notby the sack as in England.--Translator."What will you take?" Claude asked of Florent.He had on entering grasped the hand of the person who had called outto him. This was a market porter,[*] a well-built young man of two andtwenty at the most. His cheeks and chin were clean-shaven, but he worea small moustache, and looked a sprightly, strapping fellow with hisbroad-brimmed hat covered with chalk, and his wool-worked neck-piece,the straps falling from which tightened his short blue blouse. Claude,who called him Alexandre, patted his arms, and asked him when theywere going to Charentonneau again. Then they talked about a grandexcursion they had made together in a boat on the Marne, when they hadeaten a rabbit for supper in the evening.[*] Fort is the French term, literally "a strong man," as everymarket porter needs to be.--Translator."Well, what will you take?" Claude again asked Florent.The latter looked at the counter in great embarrassment. At one end ofit some stoneware pots, encircled with brass bands and containingpunch and hot wine, were standing over the short blue flames of a gasstove. Florent at last confessed that a glass of something warm wouldbe welcome. Monsieur Lebigre thereupon served them with three glassesof punch. In a basket near the pots were some smoking hot rolls whichhad only just arrived. However, as neither of the others took one,Florent likewise refrained, and drank his punch. He felt it slippingdown into his empty stomach, like a steam of molten lead. It wasAlexandre who paid for the "shout.""He's a fine fellow, that Alexandre!" said Claude, when he and Florentfound themselves alone again on the footway of the Rue Rambuteau."He's a very amusing companion to take into the country. He's fond ofshowing his strength. And then he's so magnificently built! I haveseen him stripped. Ah, if I could only get him to pose for me in thenude out in the open air! Well, we'll go and take a turn through themarkets now, if you like."Florent followed, yielding entirely to his new friend's guidance. Abright glow at the far end of the Rue Rambuteau announced the break ofday. The far-spreading voice of the markets was become more sonorous,and every now and then the peals of a bell ringing in some distantpavilion mingled with the swelling, rising clamour. Claude and Florententered one of the covered streets between the fish and poultrypavilions. Florent raised his eyes and looked at the lofty vaultoverhead, the inner timbers of which glistened amidst a black laceworkof iron supports. As he turned into the great central thoroughfare hepictured himself in some strange town, with its various districts andsuburbs, promenades and streets, squares and cross-roads, all suddenlyplaced under shelter on a rainy day by the whim of some giganticpower. The deep gloom brooding in the hollows of the roofs multiplied,as it were, the forest of pillars, and infinitely increased the numberof the delicate ribs, railed galleries, and transparent shutters. Andover the phantom city and far away into the depths of the shade, ateeming, flowering vegetation of luxuriant metal-work, with spindle-shaped stems and twining knotted branches, covered the vast expanse aswith the foliage of some ancient forest. Several departments of themarkets still slumbered behind their closed iron gates. The butter andpoultry pavilions displayed rows of little trellised stalls and longalleys, which lines of gas lights showed to be deserted. The fishmarket, however, had just been opened, and women were flitting to andfro amongst the white slabs littered with shadowy hampers and cloths.Among the vegetables and fruit and flowers the noise and bustle weregradually increasing. The whole place was by degree waking up, fromthe popular quarter where the cabbages are piled at four o'clock inthe morning, to the lazy and wealthy district which only hangs up itspullets and pheasants when the hands of the clock point to eight.The great covered alleys were now teeming with life. All along thefootways on both sides of the road there were still many marketgardeners, with other small growers from the environs of Paris, whodisplayed baskets containing their "gatherings" of the previousevening--bundles of vegetables and clusters of fruit. Whilst the crowdincessantly paced hither and thither, vehicles barred the road; andFlorent, in order to pass them, had to press against some dingy sacks,like coal-sacks in appearance, and so numerous and heavy that theaxle-trees of the vans bent beneath them. They were quite damp, andexhaled a fresh odour of seaweed. From a rent low down in the side ofone of them a black stream of big mussels was trickling.Florent and Claude had now to pause at every step. The fish wasarriving and one after another the drays of the railway companiesdrove up laden with wooden cages full of the hampers and baskets thathad come by train from the sea coast. And to get out of the way of thefish drays, which became more and more numerous and disquieting, theartist and Florent rushed amongst the wheels of the drays laden withbutter and eggs and cheese, huge yellow vehicles bearing colouredlanterns, and drawn by four horses. The market porters carried thecases of eggs, and baskets of cheese and butter, into the auctionpavilion, where clerks were making entries in note books by the lightof the gas.Claude was quite charmed with all this uproar, and forgot everythingto gaze at some effect of light, some group of blouses, or thepicturesque unloading of a cart. At last they extricated themselvesfrom the crowd, and as they continued on their way along the mainartery they presently found themselves amidst an exquisite perfumewhich seemed to be following them. They were in the cut-flower market.All over the footways, to the right and left, women were seated infront of large rectangular baskets full of bunches of roses, violets,dahlias, and marguerites. At times the clumps darkened and looked likesplotches of blood, at others they brightened into silvery greys ofthe softest tones. A lighted candle, standing near one basket, setamidst the general blackness quite a melody of colour--the brightvariegations of marguerites, the blood-red crimson of dahlias, thebluey purple of violets, and the warm flesh tints of roses. Andnothing could have been sweeter or more suggestive of springtide thanthis soft breath of perfume encountered on the footway, on emergingfrom the sharp odours of the fish market and the pestilential smell ofthe butter and the cheese.Claude and Florent turned round and strolled about, loitering amongthe flowers. They halted with some curiosity before several women whowere selling bunches of fern and bundles of vine-leaves, neatly tiedup in packets of five and twenty. Then they turned down anothercovered alley, which was almost deserted, and where their footstepsechoed as though they had been walking through a church. Here theyfound a little cart, scarcely larger than a wheelbarrow, to which washarnessed a diminutive donkey, who, no doubt, felt bored, for at sightof them he began braying with such prolonged and sonorous force thatthe vast roofing of the markets fairly trembled. Then the horses beganto neigh in reply, there was a sound of pawing and tramping, a distantuproar, which swelled, rolled along, then died away.Meantime, in the Rue Berger in front of them, Claude and Florentperceived a number of bare, frontless, salesmen's shops, where, by thelight of flaring gas jets, they could distinguish piles of hampers andfruit, enclosed by three dirty walls which were covered with additionsums in pencil. And the two wanderers were still standing there,contemplating this scene, when they noticed a well-dressed womanhuddled up in a cab which looked quite lost and forlorn in the blockof carts as it stealthily made its way onwards."There's Cinderella coming back without her slippers," remarked Claudewith a smile.They began chatting together as they went back towards the markets.Claude whistled as he strolled along with his hands in his pockets,and expatiated on his love for this mountain of food which rises everymorning in the very centre of Paris. He prowled about the footwaysnight after night, dreaming of colossal still-life subjects, paintingsof an extraordinary character. He had even started on one, having hisfriend Marjolin and that jade Cadine to pose for him; but it was hardwork to paint those confounded vegetables and fruit and fish and meat--they were all so beautiful! Florent listened to the artist'senthusiastic talk with a void and hunger-aching stomach. It did notseem to occur to Claude that all those things were intended to beeaten. Their charm for him lay in their colour. Suddenly, however, heceased speaking and, with a gesture that was habitual to him,tightened the long red sash which he wore under his green-stainedcoat.And then with a sly expression he resumed:"Besides, I breakfast here, through my eyes, at any rate, and that'sbetter than getting nothing at all. Sometimes, when I've forgotten todine on the previous day, I treat myself to a perfect fit ofindigestion in the morning by watching the carts arrive here ladenwith all sorts of good things. On such mornings as those I love myvegetables more than ever. Ah! the exasperating part, the rankinjustice of it all, is that those rascally Philistines really eatthese things!"Then he went on to tell Florent of a supper to which a friend hadtreated him at Baratte's on a day of affluence. They had partaken ofoysters, fish, and game. But Baratte's had sadly fallen, and all thecarnival life of the old Marche des Innocents was now buried. In placethereof they had those huge central markets, that colossus ofironwork, that new and wonderful town. Fools might say what theyliked; it was the embodiment of the spirit of the times. Florent,however, could not at first make out whether he was condemning thepicturesqueness of Baratte's or its good cheer.But Claude next began to inveigh against romanticism. He preferred hispiles of vegetables, he said, to the rags of the middle ages; and heended by reproaching himself with guilty weakness in making an etchingof the Rue Pirouette. All those grimy old places ought to be levelledto the ground, he declared, and modern houses ought to be built intheir stead."There!" he exclaimed, coming to a halt, "look at the corner of thefootway yonder! Isn't that a picture readymade, ever so much morehuman and natural than all their confounded consumptive daubs?"Along the covered way women were now selling hot soup and coffee. Atone corner of the foot-pavement a large circle of customers clusteredround a vendor of cabbage soup. The bright tin caldron, full of broth,was steaming over a little low stove, through the holes of which camethe pale glow of the embers. From a napkin-lined basket the woman tooksome thin slices of bread and dropped them into yellow cups; then witha ladle she filled the cups with liquor. Around her were saleswomenneatly dressed, market gardeners in blouses, porters with coats soiledby the loads they had carried, poor ragged vagabonds--in fact, all theearly hungry ones of the markets, eating, and scalding their mouths,and drawing back their chins to avoid soiling them with the drippingsfrom their spoons. The delighted artist blinked, and sought a point ofview so as to get a good ensemble of the picture. That cabbage soup,however, exhaled a very strong odour. Florent, for his part, turnedhis head away, distressed by the sight of the full cups which thecustomers emptied in silence, glancing around them the while likesuspicious animals. As the woman began serving a fresh customer,Claude himself was affected by the odorous steam of the soup, whichwas wafted full in his face.He again tightened his sash, half amused and half annoyed. Thenresuming his walk, and alluding to the punch paid for by Alexandre, hesaid to Florent in a low voice:"It's very odd, but have you ever noticed that although a man canalways find somebody to treat him to something to drink, he can neverfind a soul who will stand him anything to eat?"The dawn was now rising. The houses on the Boulevard de Sebastopol atthe end of the Rue de la Cossonnerie were still black; but above thesharp line of their slate roofs a patch of pale blue sky,circumscribed by the arch-pieces of the covered way, showed like agleaming half-moon. Claude, who had been bending over some gratedopenings on a level with the ground, through which a glimpse could beobtained of deep cellars where gas lights glimmered, now glanced upinto the air between the lofty pillars, as though scanning the darkroofs which fringed the clear sky. Then he halted again, with his eyesfixed on one of the light iron ladders which connect the superposedmarket roofs and give access from one to the other. Florent asked himwhat he was seeking there."I'm looking for that scamp of a Marjolin," replied the artist. "He'ssure to be in some guttering up there, unless, indeed, he's beenspending the night in the poultry cellars. I want him to give me asitting."Then he went on to relate how a market saleswoman had found his friendMarjolin one morning in a pile of cabbages, and how Marjolin had grownup in all liberty on the surrounding footways. When an attempt hadbeen made to send him to school he had fallen ill, and it had beennecessary to bring him back to the markets. He knew every nook andcorner of them, and loved them with a filial affection, leading theagile life of a squirrel in that forest of ironwork. He and Cadine,the hussy whom Mother Chantemesse had picked up one night in the oldMarket of the Innocents, made a pretty couple--he, a splendid foolishfellow, as glowing as a Rubens, with a ruddy down on his skin whichattracted the sunlight; and she, slight and sly, with a comical phizunder her tangle of black curly hair.Whilst talking Claude quickened his steps, and soon brought hiscompanion back to Saint Eustache again. Florent, whose legs were oncemore giving way, dropped upon a bench near the omnibus office. Themorning air was freshening. At the far end of the Rue Rambuteau rosygleams were streaking the milky sky, which higher up was slashed bybroad grey rifts. Such was the sweet balsamic scent of this dawn, thatFlorent for a moment fancied himself in the open country, on the browof a hill. But behind the bench Claude pointed out to him the manyaromatic herbs and bulbs on sale. All along the footway skirting thetripe market there were, so to say, fields of thyme and lavender,garlic and shallots; and round the young plane-trees on the pavementthe vendors had twined long branches of laurel, forming trophies ofgreenery. The strong scent of the laurel leaves prevailed over everyother odour.At present the luminous dial of Saint Eustache was paling as a night-light does when surprised by the dawn. The gas jets in the wine shopsin the neighbouring streets went out one by one, like starsextinguished by the brightness. And Florent gazed at the vast marketsnow gradually emerging from the gloom, from the dreamland in which hehad beheld them, stretching out their ranges of open palaces.Greenish-grey in hue, they looked more solid now, and even morecolossal with their prodigious masting of columns upholding an endlessexpanse of roofs. They rose up in geometrically shaped masses; andwhen all the inner lights had been extinguished and the square uniformbuildings were steeped in the rising dawn, they seemed typical of somegigantic modern machine, some engine, some caldron for the supply of awhole people, some colossal belly, bolted and riveted, built up ofwood and glass and iron, and endowed with all the elegance and powerof some mechanical motive appliance working there with flaringfurnaces, and wild, bewildering revolutions of wheels.Claude, however, had enthusiastically sprung on to the bench, andstood upon it. He compelled his companion to admire the effect of thedawn rising over the vegetables. There was a perfect sea of theseextending between the two clusters of pavilions from Saint Eustache tothe Rue des Halles. And in the two open spaces at either end the floodof greenery rose to even greater height, and quite submerged thepavements. The dawn appeared slowly, softly grey in hue, and spreadinga light water-colour tint over everything. These surging piles akin tohurrying waves, this river of verdure rushing along the roadway likean autumn torrent, assumed delicate shadowy tints--tender violet,blush-rose, and greeny yellow, all the soft, light hues which atsunrise make the sky look like a canopy of shot silk. And by degrees,as the fires of dawn rose higher and higher at the far end of the RueRambuteau, the mass of vegetation grew brighter and brighter, emergingmore and more distinctly from the bluey gloom that clung to theground. Salad herbs, cabbage-lettuce, endive, and succory, with richsoil still clinging to their roots, exposed their swelling hearts;bundles of spinach, bundles of sorrel, clusters of artichokes, pilesof peas and beans, mounds of cos-lettuce, tied round with straws,sounded every note in the whole gamut of greenery, from the sheenylacquer-like green of the pods to the deep-toned green of the foliage;a continuous gamut with ascending and descending scales which diedaway in the variegated tones of the heads of celery and bundles ofleeks. But the highest and most sonorous notes still came from thepatches of bright carrots and snowy turnips, strewn in prodigiousquantities all along the markets and lighting them up with the medleyof their two colours.At the crossway in the Rue des Halles cabbages were piled up inmountains; there were white ones, hard and compact as metal balls,curly savoys, whose great leaves made them look like basins of greenbronze, and red cabbages, which the dawn seemed to transform intosuperb masses of bloom with the hue of wine-lees, splotched with darkpurple and carmine. At the other side of the markets, at the crosswaynear Saint Eustache, the end of the Rue Rambuteau was blocked by abarricade of orange-hued pumpkins, sprawling with swelling bellies intwo superposed rows. And here and there gleamed the glistening ruddybrown of a hamper of onions, the blood-red crimson of a heap oftomatoes, the quiet yellow of a display of marrows, and the sombreviolet of the fruit of the eggplant; while numerous fat blackradishes still left patches of gloom amidst the quivering brillianceof the general awakening.Claude clapped his hands at the sight. He declared that those"blackguard vegetables" were wild, mad, sublime! He stoutly maintainedthat they were not yet dead, but, gathered in the previous evening,waited for the morning sun to bid him good-bye from the flag-stones ofthe market. He could observe their vitality, he declared, see theirleaves stir and open as though their roots were yet firmly and warmlyembedded in well-manured soil. And here, in the markets, he added, heheard the death-rattle of all the kitchen gardens of the environs ofParis.A crowd of white caps, loose black jackets, and blue blouses wasswarming in the narrow paths between the various piles. The bigbaskets of the market porters passed along slowly, above the heads ofthe throng. Retail dealers, costermongers, and greengrocers weremaking their purchases in haste. Corporals and nuns clustered roundthe mountains of cabbages, and college cooks prowled aboutinquisitively, on the look-out for good bargains. The unloading wasstill going on; heavy tumbrels, discharging their contents as thoughthese were so many paving-stones, added more and more waves to the seaof greenery which was now beating against the opposite footways. Andfrom the far end of the Rue du Pont Neuf fresh rows of carts werestill and ever arriving."What a fine sight it is!" exclaimed Claude in an ecstasy ofenthusiasm.Florent was suffering keenly. He fancied that all this was somesupernatural temptation, and, unwilling to look at the markets anylonger, turned towards Saint Eustache, a side view of which heobtained from the spot where he now stood. With its roses, and broadarched windows, its bell-turret, and roofs of slate, it looked asthough painted in sepia against the blue of the sky. He fixed his eyesat last on the sombre depths of the Rue Montorgueil, where fragmentsof gaudy sign boards showed conspicuously, and on the corner of theRue Montmartre, where there were balconies gleaming with letters ofgold. And when he again glanced at the cross-roads, his gaze wassolicited by other sign boards, on which such inscriptions as"Druggist and Chemist," "Flour and Grain" appeared in big red andblack capital letters upon faded backgrounds. Near these corners,houses with narrow windows were now awakening, setting amidst thenewness and airiness of the Rue du Pont Neuf a few of the yellowancient facades of olden Paris. Standing at the empty windows of thegreat drapery shop at the corner of the Rue Rambuteau a number ofspruce-looking counter-jumpers in their shirt sleeves, with snowy-white wristbands and tight-fitting pantaloons, were "dressing" theirgoods. Farther away, in the windows of the severe looking, barrack-like Guillot establishment, biscuits in gilt wrappers and fancy cakeson glass stands were tastefully set out. All the shops were now open;and workmen in white blouses, with tools under their arms, werehurrying along the road.Claude had not yet got down from the bench. He was standing on tiptoein order to see the farther down the streets. Suddenly, in the midstof the crowd which he overlooked, he caught sight of a fair head withlong wavy locks, followed by a little black one covered with curlytumbled hair."Hallo, Marjolin! Hallo, Cadine!" he shouted; and then, as his voicewas drowned by the general uproar, he jumped to the ground and startedoff. But all at once, recollecting that he had left Florent behindhim, he hastily came back. "I live at the end of the Impasse desBourdonnais," he said rapidly. "My name's written in chalk on thedoor, Claude Lantier. Come and see the etching of the Rue Pirouette."Then he vanished. He was quite ignorant of Florent's name, and, afterfavouring him with his views on art, parted from him as he had methim, at the roadside.Florent was now alone, and at first this pleased him. Ever sinceMadame Francoise had picked him up in the Avenue de Neuilly he hadbeen coming and going in a state of pain fraught somnolence which hadquite prevented him from forming any definite ideas of hissurroundings. Now at last he was at liberty to do what he liked, andhe tried to shake himself free from that intolerable vision of teemingfood by which he was pursued. But his head still felt empty and dizzy,and all that he could find within him was a kind of vague fear. Theday was now growing quite bright, and he could be distinctly seen. Helooked down at his wretched shabby coat and trousers. He buttoned thefirst, dusted the latter, and strove to make a bit of a toilet,fearing lest those black rags of his should proclaim aloud whence hehad come. He was seated in the middle of the bench, by the side ofsome wandering vagabonds who had settled themselves there whilewaiting for the sunrise. The neighbourhood of the markets is afavourite spot with vagrants in the small hours of the morning.However, two constables, still in night uniform, with cloaks andkepis, paced up and down the footway side by side, their handsresting behind their backs; and every time they passed the bench theyglanced at the game which they scented there. Florent felt sure thatthey recognised him, and were consulting together about arresting him.At this thought his anguish of mind became extreme. He felt a wilddesire to get up and run away; but he did not dare to do so, and wasquite at a loss as to how he might take himself off. The repeatedglances of the constables, their cold, deliberate scrutiny caused himthe keenest torture. At length he rose from the bench, making a greateffort to restrain himself from rushing off as quickly as his longlegs could carry him; and succeeded in walking quietly away, thoughhis shoulders quivered in the fear he felt of suddenly feeling therough hands of the constables clutching at his collar from behind.He had now only one thought, one desire, which was to get away fromthe markets as quickly as possible. He would wait and make hisinvestigations later on, when the footways should be clear. The threestreets which met here--the Rue Montmartre, Rue Montorgueil, and RueTurbigo--filled him with uneasiness. They were blocked by vehicles ofall kinds, and their footways were crowded with vegetables. Florentwent straight along as far as the Rue Pierre Lescot, but there thecress and the potato markets seemed to him insuperable obstacles. Sohe resolved to take the Rue Rambuteau. On reaching the Boulevard deSebastopol, however, he came across such a block of vans and carts andwaggonettes that he turned back and proceeded along the Rue SaintDenis. Then he got amongst the vegetables once more. Retail dealershad just set up their stalls, formed of planks resting on tallhampers; and the deluge of cabbages and carrots and turnips began allover again. The markets were overflowing. Florent tried to make hisescape from this pursuing flood which ever overtook him in his flight.He tried the Rue de la Cossonnerie, the Rue Berger, the Square desInnocents, the Rue de la Ferronnerie, and the Rue des Halles. And atlast he came to a standstill, quite discouraged and scared at findinghimself unable to escape from the infernal circle of vegetables, whichnow seemed to dance around him, twining clinging verdure about hislegs.The everlasting stream of carts and horses stretched away as far asthe Rue de Rivoli and the Place de l'Hotel de Ville. Huge vans werecarrying away supplies for all the greengrocers and fruiterers of anentire district; chars-a-bancs were starting for the suburbs withstraining, groaning sides. In the Rue de Pont Neuf Florent gotcompletely bewildered. He stumbled upon a crowd of hand-carts, inwhich numerous costermongers were arranging their purchases. Amongstthem he recognised Lacaille, who went off along the Rue Saint Honore,pushing a barrow of carrots and cauliflowers before him. Florentfollowed him, in the hope that he would guide him out of the mob. Thepavement was now quite slippery, although the weather was dry, and thelitter of artichoke stalks, turnip tops, and leaves of all kinds madewalking somewhat dangerous. Florent stumbled at almost every step. Helost sight of Lacaille in the Rue Vauvilliers, and on approaching thecorn market he again found the streets barricaded with vehicles. Thenhe made no further attempt to struggle; he was once more in the clutchof the markets, and their stream of life bore him back. Slowlyretracing his steps, he presently found himself by Saint Eustacheagain.He now heard the loud continuous rumbling of the waggons that weresetting out from the markets. Paris was doling out the daily food ofits two million inhabitants. These markets were like some huge centralorgan beating with giant force, and sending the blood of life throughevery vein of the city. The uproar was akin to that of colossal jaws--a mighty sound to which each phase of the provisioning contributed,from the whip-cracking of the larger retail dealers as they startedoff for the district markets to the dragging pit-a-pat of the oldshoes worn by the poor women who hawked their lettuces in baskets fromdoor to door.Florent turned into a covered way on the left, intersecting the groupof four pavilions whose deep silent gloom he had remarked during thenight. He hoped that he might there find a refuge, discover somecorner in which he could hide himself. But these pavilions were now asbusy, as lively as the others. Florent walked on to the end of thestreet. Drays were driving up at a quick trot, crowding the marketwith cages full of live poultry, and square hampers in which deadbirds were stowed in deep layers. On the other side of the way wereother drays from which porters were removing freshly killed calves,wrapped in canvas, and laid at full length in baskets, whence only thefour bleeding stumps of their legs protruded. There were also wholesheep, and sides and quarters of beef. Butchers in long white apronsmarked the meat with a stamp, carried it off, weighted it, and hung itup on hooks in the auction room. Florent, with his face close to thegrating, stood gazing at the rows of hanging carcasses, at the ruddysheep and oxen and paler calves, all streaked with yellow fat andsinews, and with bellies yawning open. Then he passed along thesidewalk where the tripe market was held, amidst the pallid calves'feet and heads, the rolled tripe neatly packed in boxes, the brainsdelicately set out in flat baskets, the sanguineous livers, andpurplish kidneys. He checked his steps in front of some long two-wheeled carts, covered with round awnings, and containing sides ofpork hung on each side of the vehicle over a bed of straw. Seen fromthe back end, the interiors of the carts looked like recesses of sometabernacle, like some taper-lighted chapel, such was the glow of allthe bare flesh they contained. And on the beds of straw were lines oftin cans, full of the blood that had trickled from the pigs. ThereuponFlorent was attacked by a sort of rage. The insipid odour of the meat,the pungent smell of the tripe exasperated him. He made his way out ofthe covered road, preferring to return once more to the footwalk ofthe Rue de Pont Neuf.He was enduring perfect agony. The shiver of early morning came uponhim; his teeth chattered, and he was afraid of falling to the groundand finding himself unable to rise again. He looked about, but couldsee no vacant place on any bench. Had he found one he would havedropped asleep there, even at the risk of being awakened by thepolice. Then, as giddiness nearly blinded him, he leaned for supportagainst a tree, with his eyes closed and his ears ringing. The rawcarrot, which he had swallowed almost without chewing, was torturinghis stomach, and the glass of punch which he had drunk seemed to haveintoxicated him. He was indeed intoxicated with misery, weariness, andhunger. Again he felt a burning fire in the pit of the stomach, towhich he every now and then carried his hands, as though he weretrying to stop up a hole through which all his life was oozing away.As he stood there he fancied that the foot-pavement rocked beneathhim; and thinking that he might perhaps lessen his sufferings bywalking, he went straight on through the vegetables again. He losthimself among them. He went along a narrow footway, turned downanother, was forced to retrace his steps, bungled in doing so, andonce more found himself amidst piles of greenery. Some heaps were sohigh that people seemed to be walking between walls of bundles andbunches. Only their heads slightly overtopped these ramparts, andpassed along showing whitely or blackly according to the colour oftheir hats or caps; whilst the huge swinging baskets, carried aloft ona level with the greenery, looked like osier boats floating on astagnant, mossy lake.Florent stumbled against a thousand obstacles--against porters takingup their burdens, and saleswomen disputing in rough tones. He slippedover the thick bed of waste leaves and stumps which covered thefootway, and was almost suffocated by the powerful odour of crushedverdure. At last he halted in a sort of confused stupor, andsurrendered to the pushing of some and the insults of others; and thenhe became a mere waif, a piece of wreckage tossed about on the surfaceof that surging sea.He was fast losing all self-respect, and would willingly have begged.The recollection of his foolish pride during the night exasperatedhim. If he had accepted Madame Francois's charity, if he had not feltsuch idiotic fear of Claude, he would not now have been stranded theregroaning in the midst of these cabbages. And he was especially angrywith himself for not having questioned the artist when they were inthe Rue Pirouette. Now, alas! he was alone and deserted, liable to diein the streets like a homeless dog.For the last time he raised his eyes and looked at the markets. Atpresent they were glittering in the sun. A broad ray was pouringthrough the covered road from the far end, cleaving the massypavilions with an arcade of light, whilst fiery beams rained down uponthe far expanse of roofs. The huge iron framework grew less distinct,assumed a bluey hue, became nothing but a shadowy silhouette outlinedagainst the flaming flare of the sunrise. But up above a pane of glasstook fire, drops of light trickled down the broad sloping zinc platesto the gutterings; and then, below, a tumultuous city appeared amidsta haze of dancing golden dust. The general awakening had spread, fromthe first start of the market gardeners snoring in their cloaks, tothe brisk rolling of the food-laden railway drays. And the whole citywas opening its iron gates, the footways were humming, the pavilionsroaring with life. Shouts and cries of all kinds rent the air; it wasas though the strain, which Florent had heard gathering force in thegloom ever since four in the morning, had now attained its fullestvolume. To the right and left, on all sides indeed, the sharp criesaccompanying the auction sales sounded shrilly like flutes amidst thesonorous bass roar of the crowd. It was the fish, the butter, thepoultry, and the meat being sold.The pealing of bells passed through the air, imparting a quiver to thebuzzing of the opening markets. Around Florent the sun was setting thevegetables aflame. He no longer perceived any of those soft water-colour tints which had predominated in the pale light of earlymorning. The swelling hearts of the lettuces were now gleamingbrightly, the scales of greenery showed forth with wondrous vigour,the carrots glowed blood-red, the turnips shone as if incandescent inthe triumphant radiance of the sun.On Florent's left some waggons were discharging fresh loads ofcabbages. He turned his eyes, and away in the distance saw carts yetstreaming out of the Rue Turbigo. The tide was still and ever rising.He had felt it about his ankles, then on a level with his stomach, andnow it was threatening to drown him altogether. Blinded and submerged,his ears buzzing, his stomach overpowered by all that he had seen, heasked for mercy; and wild grief took possession of him at the thoughtof dying there of starvation in the very heart of glutted Paris,amidst the effulgent awakening of her markets. Big hot tears startedfrom his eyes.Walking on, he had now reached one of the larger alleys. Two women,one short and old, the other tall and withered, passed him, talkingtogether as they made their way towards the pavilions."So you've come to do your marketing, Mademoiselle Saget?" said thetall withered woman."Well, yes, Madame Lecoeur, if you can give it such a name asmarketing. I'm a lone woman, you know, and live on next to nothing. Ishould have liked a small cauliflower, but everything is so dear. Howis butter selling to-day?""At thirty-four sous. I have some which is first rate. Will you comeand look at it?""Well, I don't know if I shall want any to-day; I've still a littlelard left."Making a supreme effort, Florent followed these two women. Herecollected having heard Claude name the old one--Mademoiselle Saget--when they were in the Rue Pirouette; and he made up his mind toquestion her when she should have parted from her tall witheredacquaintance."And how's your niece?" Mademoiselle Saget now asked."Oh, La Sarriette does as she likes," Madame Lecoeur replied in abitter tone. "She's chosen to set up for herself and her affairs nolonger concern me. When her lovers have beggared her, she needn't cometo me for any bread.""And you were so good to her, too! She ought to do well this year;fruit is yielding big profits. And your brother-in-law, how is he?""Oh, he----"Madame Lecoeur bit her lips, and seemed disinclined to say anythingmore."Still the same as ever, I suppose?" continued Mademoiselle Saget."He's a very worthy man. Still, I once heard it said that he spent hismoney in such a way that--""But does anyone know how he spends his money?" interrupted MadameLecoeur, with much asperity. "He's a miserly niggard, a scurvy fellow,that's what I say! Do you know, mademoiselle, he'd see me die ofstarvation rather than lend me five francs! He knows quite well thatthere's nothing to be made out of butter this season, any more thanout of cheese and eggs; whereas he can sell as much poultry as ever hechooses. But not once, I assure you, not once has he offered to helpme. I am too proud, as you know, to accept any assistance from him;still it would have pleased me to have had it offered.""Ah, by the way, there he is, your brother-in-law!" suddenly exclaimedMademoiselle Saget, lowering her voice.The two women turned and gazed at a man who was crossing the road toenter the covered way close by."I'm in a hurry," murmured Madame Lecoeur. "I left my stall withoutanyone to look after it; and, besides, I don't want to speak to him."However, Florent also had mechanically turned round and glanced at theindividual referred to. This was a short, squarely-built man, with acheery look and grey, close-cut brush-like hair. Under each arm he wascarrying a fat goose, whose head hung down and flapped against hislegs. And then all at once Florent made a gesture of delight.Forgetting his fatigue, he ran after the man, and, overtaking him,tapped him on the shoulder."Gavard!" he exclaimed.The other raised his head and stared with surprise at Florent's tallblack figure, which he did not at first recognise. Then all at once:"What! is it you?" he cried, as if overcome with amazement. "Is itreally you?"He all but let his geese fall, and seemed unable to master hissurprise. On catching sight, however, of his sister-in-law andMademoiselle Saget, who were watching the meeting at a distance, hebegan to walk on again."Come along; don't let us stop here," he said. "There are too manyeyes and tongues about."When they were in the covered way they began to chat. Florent relatedhow he had gone to the Rue Pirouette, at which Gavard seemed muchamused and laughed heartily. Then he told Florent that his brotherQuenu had moved from that street and had reopened his pork shop closeby, in the Rue Rambuteau, just in front of the markets. And afterwardshe was again highly amused to hear that Florent had been wanderingabout all that morning with Claude Lantier, an odd kind of fish, who,strangely enough, said he, was Madame Quenu's nephew. Thus chatting,Gavard was on the point of taking Florent straight to the pork shop,but, on hearing that he had returned to France with false papers, hesuddenly assumed all sorts of solemn and mysterious airs, and insistedupon walking some fifteen paces in front of him, to avoid attractingattention. After passing through the poultry pavilion, where he hunghis geese up in his stall, he began to cross the Rue Rambuteau, stillfollowed by Florent; and then, halting in the middle of the road, heglanced significantly towards a large and well-appointed pork shop.The sun was obliquely enfilading the Rue Rambuteau, lighting up thefronts of the houses, in the midst of which the Rue Pirouette formed adark gap. At the other end the great pile of Saint Eustache glitteredbrightly in the sunlight like some huge reliquary. And right throughthe crowd, from the distant crossway, an army of street-sweepers wasadvancing in file down the road, the brooms swishing rhythmically,while scavengers provided with forks pitched the collected refuse intotumbrels, which at intervals of a score of paces halted with a noiselike the chattering of broken pots. However, all Florent's attentionwas concentrated on the pork shop, open and radiant in the rising sun.It stood very near the corner of the Rue Pirouette and provided quitea feast for the eyes. Its aspect was bright and smiling, touches ofbrilliant colour showing conspicuously amidst all the snowy marble.The sign board, on which the name of QUENU-GRADELLE glittered in fatgilt letters encircled by leaves and branches painted on a soft-huedbackground, was protected by a sheet of glass. On two panels, one oneach side of the shop-front, and both, like the board above, coveredwith glass, were paintings representing various chubby little cupidsplaying amidst boars' heads, pork chops and strings of sausages; andthese latter still-life subjects, embellished with scrolls and bows,had been painted in such soft tones that the uncooked pork which theyrepresented had the pinkiness of raspberry jam. Within this pleasingframework arose the window display, arranged upon a bed of fine blue-paper shavings. Here and there fern-leaves, tastefully disposed,changed the plates which they encircled into bouquets fringed withfoliage. There was a wealth of rich, luscious, melting things. Downbelow, quite close to the window, jars of preserved sausage-meat wereinterspersed with pots of mustard. Above these were some small, plump,boned hams. Golden with their dressings of toasted bread-crumbs, andadorned at the knuckles with green rosettes. Next came the largerdishes, some containing preserved Strasburg tongues, enclosed inbladders coloured a bright red and varnished, so that they lookedquite sanguineous beside the pale sausages and trotters; then therewere black-puddings coiled like harmless snakes, healthy lookingchitterlings piled up two by two; Lyons sausages in little silvercopes that made them look like choristers; hot pies, with littlebanner-like tickets stuck in them; big hams, and great glazed jointsof veal and pork, whose jelly was as limpid as sugar-candy. In therear were other dishes and earthen pans in which meat, minced andsliced, slumbered beneath lakes of melted fat. And betwixt the variousplates and dishes, jars and bottle of sauce, cullis, stock andpreserved truffles, pans of foie gras and boxes of sardines andtunny-fish were strewn over the bed of paper shavings. A box of creamycheeses, and one of edible snails, the apertures of whose shells weredressed with butter and parsley, had been placed carelessly at eithercorner. Finally, from a bar overhead strings of sausages and saveloysof various sizes hung down symmetrically like cords and tassels; whilein the rear fragments of intestinal membranes showed like lacework,like some guipure of white flesh. And on the highest tier in thissanctuary of gluttony, amidst the membranes and between two bouquetsof purple gladioli, the window stand was crowned by a small squareaquarium, ornamented with rock-work, and containing a couple of gold-fish, which were continually swimming round it.Florent's whole body thrilled at the sight. Then he perceived a womanstanding in the sunlight at the door of the shop. With her prosperous,happy look in the midst of all those inviting things she added to thecherry aspect of the place. She was a fine woman and quite blocked thedoorway. Still, she was not over stout, but simply buxom, with thefull ripeness of her thirty years. She had only just risen, yet herglossy hair was already brushed smooth and arranged in little flatbands over her temples, giving her an appearance of extreme neatness.She had the fine skin, the pinky-white complexion common to thosewhose life is spent in an atmosphere of raw meat and fat. There was atouch of gravity about her demeanour, her movements were calm andslow; what mirth or pleasure she felt she expressed by her eyes, herlips retaining all their seriousness. A collar of starched linenencircled her neck, white sleevelets reached to her elbows, and awhite apron fell even over the tips of her shoes, so that you saw butlittle of her black cashmere dress, which clung tightly to her well-rounded shoulders and swelling bosom. The sun rays poured hotly uponall the whiteness she displayed. However, although her bluish-blackhair, her rosy face, and bright sleeves and apron were steeped in theglow of light, she never once blinked, but enjoyed her morning bath ofsunshine with blissful tranquillity, her soft eyes smiling the whileat the flow and riot of the markets. She had the appearance of a veryworthy woman."That is your brother's wife, your sister-in-law, Lisa," Gavard saidto Florent.He had saluted her with a slight inclination of the head. Then hedarted along the house passage, continuing to take the most minuteprecautions, and unwilling to let Florent enter the premises throughthe shop, though there was no one there. It was evident that he feltgreat pleasure in dabbling in what he considered to be a compromisingbusiness."Wait here," he said, "while I go to see whether your brother isalone. You can come in when I clap my hands."Thereupon he opened a door at the end of the passage. But as soon asFlorent heard his brother's voice behind it, he sprang inside at abound. Quenu, who was much attached to him, threw his arms round hisneck, and they kissed each other like children."Ah! dash it all! Is it really you, my dear fellow?" stammered thepork butcher. "I never expected to see you again. I felt sure you weredead! Why, only yesterday I was saying to Lisa, 'That poor fellow,Florent!'"However, he stopped short, and popping his head into the shop, calledout, "Lisa! Lisa!" Then turning towards a little girl who had creptinto a corner, he added, "Pauline, go and find your mother."The little one did not stir, however. She was an extremely fine child,five years of age, with a plump chubby face, bearing a strongresemblance to that of the pork butcher's wife. In her arms she washolding a huge yellow cat, which had cheerfully surrendered itself toher embrace, with its legs dangling downwards; and she now squeezed ittightly with her little arms, as if she were afraid that yondershabby-looking gentleman might rob her of it.Lisa, however, leisurely made her appearance."Here is my brother Florent!" exclaimed Quenu.Lisa addressed him as "Monsieur," and gave him a kindly welcome. Shescanned him quietly from head to foot, without evincing anydisagreeable surprise. Merely a faint pout appeared for a moment onher lips. Then, standing by, she began to smile at her husband'sdemonstrations of affection. Quenu, however, at last recovered hiscalmness, and noticing Florent's fleshless, poverty-strickenappearance, exclaimed: "Ah, my poor fellow, you haven't improved inyour looks since you were over yonder. For my part, I've grown fat;but what would you have!"He had indeed grown fat, too fat for his thirty years. He seemed to bebursting through his shirt and apron, through all the snowy-whitelinen in which he was swathed like a huge doll. With advancing yearshis clean-shaven face had become elongated, assuming a faintresemblance to the snout of one of those pigs amidst whose flesh hishands worked and lived the whole day through. Florent scarcelyrecognised him. He had now seated himself, and his glance turned fromhis brother to handsome Lisa and little Pauline. They were all brimfulof health, squarely built, sleek, in prime condition; and in theirturn they looked at Florent with the uneasy astonishment whichcorpulent people feel at the sight of a scraggy person. The very cat,whose skin was distended by fat, dilated its yellow eyes andscrutinised him with an air of distrust."You'll wait till we have breakfast, won't you?" asked Quenu. "We haveit early, at ten o'clock."A penetrating odour of cookery pervaded the place; and Florent lookedback upon the terrible night which he had just spent, his arrivalamongst the vegetables, his agony in the midst of the markets, theendless avalanches of food from which he had just escaped. And then ina low tone and with a gentle smile he responded:"No; I'm really very hungry, you see."