moved from that street and had reopened his pork shop close by, in the
Rue Rambuteau, just in front of the markets. And afterwards he was again
highly amused to hear that Florent had been wandering about all that
morning with Claude Lantier, an odd kind of fish, who, strangely enough,
said he, was Madame Quenu's nephew. Thus chatting, Gavard was on the
point of taking Florent straight to the pork shop, but, on hearing that
he had returned to France with false papers, he suddenly assumed all
sorts of solemn and mysterious airs, and insisted upon walking some
fifteen paces in front of him, to avoid attracting attention. After
passing through the poultry pavilion, where he hung his geese up in his
stall, he began to cross the Rue Rambuteau, still followed by Florent;
and then, halting in the middle of the road, he glanced significantly
towards a large and well-appointed pork shop.

The sun was obliquely enfilading the Rue Rambuteau, lighting up the
fronts of the houses, in the midst of which the Rue Pirouette formed a
dark gap. At the other end the great pile of Saint Eustache glittered
brightly in the sunlight like some huge reliquary. And right through
the crowd, from the distant crossway, an army of street-sweepers was
advancing in file down the road, the brooms swishing rhythmically,
while scavengers provided with forks pitched the collected refuse into
tumbrels, which at intervals of a score of paces halted with a noise
like the chattering of broken pots. However, all Florent's attention was
concentrated on the pork shop, open and radiant in the rising sun.

It stood very near the corner of the Rue Pirouette and provided quite
a feast for the eyes. Its aspect was bright and smiling, touches of
brilliant colour showing conspicuously amidst all the snowy marble. The
sign board, on which the name of QUENU-GRADELLE glittered in fat
gilt letters encircled by leaves and branches painted on a soft-hued