and fancy cakes on glass stands were tastefully set out. All the shops
were now open; and workmen in white blouses, with tools under their
arms, were hurrying along the road.

Claude had not yet got down from the bench. He was standing on tiptoe in
order to see the farther down the streets. Suddenly, in the midst of the
crowd which he overlooked, he caught sight of a fair head with long wavy
locks, followed by a little black one covered with curly tumbled hair.

"Hallo, Marjolin! Hallo, Cadine!" he shouted; and then, as his voice was
drowned by the general uproar, he jumped to the ground and started off.
But all at once, recollecting that he had left Florent behind him, he
hastily came back. "I live at the end of the Impasse des Bourdonnais,"
he said rapidly. "My name's written in chalk on the door, Claude
Lantier. Come and see the etching of the Rue Pirouette."

Then he vanished. He was quite ignorant of Florent's name, and, after
favouring him with his views on art, parted from him as he had met him,
at the roadside.

Florent was now alone, and at first this pleased him. Ever since Madame
Francoise had picked him up in the Avenue de Neuilly he had been
coming and going in a state of pain fraught somnolence which had quite
prevented him from forming any definite ideas of his surroundings. Now
at last he was at liberty to do what he liked, and he tried to shake
himself free from that intolerable vision of teeming food 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. The day was now growing
quite bright, and he could be distinctly seen. He looked down at his
wretched shabby coat and trousers. He buttoned the first, dusted the