under the trees, and then suddenly seemed roused and astonished to
find they had already come so far. The Esplanade, open on all sides,
save on the south, where rose the distant pile of the Hotel des
Invalides, delighted them--it was so vast, so quiet; they there had
plenty of room for their gestures; and they recovered breath there,
although they were always declaring that Paris was far too small for
them, and lacked sufficient air to inflate their ambitious lungs.

'Are you going anywhere particular?' asked Sandoz of Mahoudeau and
Jory.

'No,' answered the latter, 'we are going with you. Where are _you_
going?'

Claude, gazing carelessly about him, muttered: 'I don't know. That
way, if you like.'

They turned on to the Quai d'Orsay, and went as far as the Pont de la
Concorde. In front of the Corps Legislatif the painter remarked, with
an air of disgust: 'What a hideous pile!'

'Jules Favre made a fine speech the other day. How he did rile
Rouher,' said Jory.

However, the others left him no time to proceed, the disputes began
afresh. 'Who was Jules Favre? Who was Rouher? Did they exist? A parcel
of idiots whom no one would remember ten years after their death.' The
young men had now begun to cross the bridge, and they shrugged their
shoulders with compassion. Then, on reaching the Place de la Concorde,
they stopped short and relapsed into silence.