Then they lapsed into silence, while Cartoner thought of his letter.  Deulin, to judge from a couple of sharp sighs which caught him unawares, must have been thinking of Netty Cahere.  At length the Frenchman rose and took his leave, making an appointment to dine with Cartoner that evening.

Out in the street he took off his hat to high heaven again.

“More lies!” he murmured, humbly.

IX

THE SAND-WORKERS

At the foot of the steep and narrow Bednarska—­the street running down from the Cracow Faubourg to the river—­there are always many workers.  It is here that the bathing-houses and the boat-houses are.  Here lie the steamers that ply slowly on the shallow river.  Here, also, is a trade in timber where from time to time one of the smaller rafts that float from the Carpathians down to Dantzic is moored and broken up.  Here, also, are loafers, who, like flies, congregate naturally near the water.

A few hundred yards higher up the river, between the Bednarska and the spacious Jerozolimska Alley, many carts and men work all day in the sand which the Vistula deposits along her low banks.  The Jerozolimska starts hopefully from the higher parts of the city—­the widest, the newest, the most Parisian street in the town, Warsaw’s only boulevard—­down the hill, as if it expected to find a bridge at the bottom.  But there is no bridge there, and the fine street dwindles away to sandy ruts and a broken tow-path.  Here horses struggle vainly to drag heavy sand-carts from the ruts, while their drivers swear at them and the sand-workers lean on their spades and watch.  A cleaner sand is dredged from the middle or brought across in deep-laden punts from the many banks that render navigation next to impossible—­a clean, hard sand, most excellent for building purposes.

It was the hour of the mid-day dinner—­for Polish hours are the hours of the early Victorian meals.  Horses and men were alike at rest.  The horses nibbled at the thin grass, while the men sat by the water and ate their gray bread, which only tastes of dampness and carraway-seeds.  It was late autumn, and the sun shone feebly through a yellow haze.  The scene was not exhilarating.  The Vistula, to put it plainly, is a dismal river.  Poland is a dismal country.  A witty Frenchman, who knew it well, once said that it is a country to die for, but not to live in.

It was only natural that the workmen should group together for their uninteresting meal.  The sand-bank offered a comfortable seat.  Their position was in a sense a strategetical one.  They were in full view of the bridge and of the high land behind them, but no one could approach within half a mile unperceived.

“Yes,” one of the workmen was saying, “those who know say that there will inevitably be a kingdom of Poland again.  Some day.  And if some day, why not now?  Why not this time?”