worried and happy, bringing with
them the pleasant freshness of the country air. Madame Francois had
disposed of all her vegetables that morning before daylight; and they
had all three gone to the Golden Compasses, in the Rue Montorgueil, to
get the cart. Here, in the middle of Paris, they found a foretaste of
the country. Behind the Restaurant Philippe, with its frontage of gilt
woodwork rising to the first floor, there was a yard like that of a
farm, dirty, teeming with life, reeking with the odour of manure
and straw. Bands of fowls were pecking at the soft ground. Sheds and
staircases and galleries of greeny wood clung to the old houses around,
and at the far end, in a shanty of big beams, was Balthazar, harnessed
to the cart, and eating the oats in his nosebag. He went down the Rue
Montorgueil at a slow trot, seemingly well pleased to return to Nanterre
so soon. However, he was not going home without a load. Madame Francois
had a contract with the company which undertook the scavenging of the
markets, and twice a week she carried off with her a load of leaves,
forked up from the mass of refuse which littered the square. It made
excellent manure. In a few minutes the cart was filled to overflowing.
Claude and Florent stretched themselves out on the deep bed of greenery;
Madame Francois grasped her reins, and Balthazar went off at his slow,
steady pace, his head somewhat bent by reason of there being so many
passengers to pull along.

This excursion had been talked of for a long time past. Madame Francois
laughed cheerily. She was partial to the two men, and promised them
an _omelette au lard_ as had never been eaten, said she, in "that
villainous Paris." Florent and Claude revelled in the thought of this
day of lounging idleness which as yet had scarcely begun to dawn.
Nanterre seemed to be some distant paradise into which they would
presently enter.

"Are you quite comfortable?" Madame Francois asked as the cart turned
into the Rue du Pont Neuf.

Claude declared that their couch was as soft as a bridal bed. Lying on
their backs, with their hands crossed under their heads, both men were
looking up at the pale sky from which the stars were vanishing. All
along the Rue de Rivoli they kept unbroken silence, waiting till they
should have got clear of the houses, and listening to the worthy woman
as she chattered to Balthazar: "Take your time, old man," she said to
him in kindly tones. "We're in no hurry; we shall be