Florent, however, came to stand at the corner of the rue de Mondetour, in front of the last house but one on the left.  Here the three floors, each with two shutterless windows, having little white curtains closely drawn, seemed wrapped in sleep; but, up above, a light could be seen flitting behind the curtains of a tiny gable casement.  However, the sight of the shop beneath the pent-house seemed to fill Florent with the deepest emotion.  It was kept by a dealer in cooked vegetables, and was just being opened.  At its far end some metal pans were glittering, while on several earthen ones in the window there was a display of cooked spinach and endive, reduced to a paste and arranged in conical mounds from which customers were served with shovel-like carvers of white metal, only the handles of which were visible.  This sight seemed to rivet Florent to the ground with surprise.  He evidently could not recognize the place.  He read the name of the shopkeeper, Godeboeuf, which was painted on a red sign board up above, and remained quite overcome by consternation.  His arms dangling beside him, he began to examine the cooked spinach, with the despairing air of one on whom some supreme misfortune falls.

However, the gable casement was now opened, and a little old woman leaned out of it, and looked first at the sky and then at the markets in the distance.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Saget is an early riser,” exclaimed Claude, who had just raised his head.  And, turning to his companion, he added:  “I once had an aunt living in that house.  It’s a regular hive of tittle-tattle!  Ah, the Mehudins are stirring now, I see.  There’s a light on the second floor.”

Florent would have liked to question his companion, but the latter’s long discoloured overcoat give him a disquieting appearance.  So without a word Florent followed him, whilst he went on talking about the Mehudins.  These Mehudins were fish-girls, it seemed; the older one was a magnificent creature, while the younger one, who sold fresh-water fish, reminded Claude of one of Murillo’s virgins, whenever he saw her standing with her fair face amidst her carps and eels.

From this Claude went on to remark with asperity that Murillo painted like an ignoramus.  But all at once he stopped short in the middle of the street.

“Come!” he exclaimed, “tell me where it is that you want to go.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere just at present,” replied Florent in confusion.  “Let’s go wherever you like.”

Just as they were leaving the Rue Pirouette, some one called to Claude from a wine shop at the corner of the street.  The young man went in, dragging Florent with him.  The shutters had been taken down on one side only, and the gas was still burning in the sleepy atmosphere of the shop.  A forgotten napkin and some cards that had been used in the previous evening’s play were still lying on the tables; and the fresh breeze that streamed in through the