fed to right and left, as if to see which way the
wind blew, they ended by going up the street, reached the Place de
l'Observatoire, and turned down the Boulevard du Montparnasse. This was
their ordinary promenade; they reached the spot instinctively, being
fond of the wide expanse of the outer boulevards, where they could roam
and lounge at ease. They continued silent, for their heads were heavy
still, but the comfort of being together gradually made them more
serene. Still it was only when they were opposite the Western Railway
Station that Sandoz spoke.

'I say, suppose we go to Mahoudeau's, to see how he's getting on with
his big machine. I know that he has given "his gods and saints" the slip
to-day.'

'All right,' answered Claude. 'Let's go to Mahoudeau's.'

They at once turned into the Rue du Cherche-Midi. There, at a few steps
from the boulevard, Mahoudeau, a sculptor, had rented the shop of a
fruiterer who had failed in business, and he had installed his studio
therein, contenting himself with covering the windows with a layer of
whitening. At this point, the street, wide and deserted, has a quiet,
provincial aspect, with a somewhat ecclesiastical touch. Large gateways
stand wide open showing a succession of deep roomy yards; from a
cowkeeper's establishment comes a tepid, pungent smell of litter; and
the dead wall of a convent stretches away for a goodly length. It was
between this convent and a herbalist's that the shop transformed into
a studio was situated. It still bore on its sign-board the inscription,
'Fruit and Vegetables,' in large yellow letters.

Claude and Sandoz narrowly missed being blinded by some little girls who
were skipping in the street. On the foot pavement sat several families
whose barricades of chairs compelled the friends to step down on to
the roadway. However, they were drawing nigh, when the sight of the
herbalist's shop delayed them for a moment. Between its windows, decked
with enemas, bandages, and similar things, beneath the dried herbs
hanging above the doorway, whence came a constant aromatic smell, a
thin, dark woman stood taking stock of them, while, behind her, in
the gloom of the shop, one saw the vague silhouette of a little
sickly-looking man, who was coughing and expectorating. The friends
nudged each other, their eyes lighted up with bantering mirth; and then
they turned the handle of Mahoudeau's door.

The shop, though tolerably roomy, was almost filled by a mass