te, and finally reached the Luxembourg by way of
the Rue de Seine, where a poster, printed in three colours, the
garish announcement of a travelling circus, made them all shout with
admiration. Evening was coming on; the stream of wayfarers flowed more
slowly; the tired city was awaiting the shadows of night, ready to yield
to the first comer who might be strong enough to take her.

On reaching the Rue d'Enfer, when Sandoz had ushered his four friends
into his own apartments, he once more vanished into his mother's room.
He remained there for a few moments, and then came out without saying
a word, but with the tender, gentle smile habitual to him on such
occasions. And immediately afterwards a terrible hubbub, of laughter,
argument, and mere shouting, arose in his little flat. Sandoz himself
set the example, all the while assisting the charwoman, who burst into
bitter language because it was half-past seven, and her leg of mutton
was drying up. The five companions, seated at table, were already
swallowing their soup, a very good onion soup, when a new comer suddenly
appeared.

'Hallo! here's Gagniere,' was the vociferous chorus.

Gagniere, short, slight, and vague looking, with a doll-like startled
face, set off by a fair curly beard, stood for a moment on the threshold
blinking his green eyes. He belonged to Melun, where his well-to-do
parents, who were both dead, had left him two houses; and he had learnt
painting, unassisted, in the forest of Fontainebleau. His landscapes
were at least conscientiously painted, excellent in intention; but his
real passion was music, a madness for music, a cerebral bonfire which
set him on a level with the wildest of the band.

'Am I in the way?' he gently asked.

'Not at all; come in!' shouted Sandoz.

The charwoman was already laying an extra knife and fork.

'Suppose she lays a place for Dubuche, while she is about it,' said
Claude. 'He told me he would perhaps come.'

But they were all down upon Dubuche, who frequented women in society.
Jory said that he had seen him in a carriage with an old lady and her
daughter, whose parasols he was holding on his knees.

'Where have you come from to be so late?' asked Fagerolles of Gagniere.

The latter, who was about to swallow his first spoonful of soup, set it
in his plate again.

'I was in the Rue de Lancry--you know, where they have chamber music.
Oh! my boy, some of Schumann's machines! You haven't an idea of them!
They clut