At last he slowly went his way homewards again with his gaze fixed upon the ground.  But all at once a cooing sound made him look up, and he saw that he was passing through the garden of the Tuileries.  A number of wood-pigeons, bridling their necks, were strutting over a lawn near by.  Florent leant for a moment against the tub of an orange-tree, and looked at the grass and the pigeons steeped in sunshine.  Right ahead under the chestnut-trees all was black.  The garden was wrapped in a warm silence, broken only by the distant rumbling which came from behind the railings of the Rue de Rivoli.  The scent of all the greenery affected Florent, reminding him of Madame Francois.  However, a little girl ran past, trundling a hoop, and alarmed the pigeons.  They flew off, and settled in a row on the arm of a marble statue of an antique wrestler standing in the middle of the lawn, and once more, but with less vivacity, they began to coo and bridle their necks.

As Florent was returning to the markets by way of the Rue Vauvilliers, he heard Claude Lantier calling to him.  The artist was going down into the basement of the poultry pavilion.  “Come with me!” he cried.  “I’m looking for that brute Marjolin.”

Florent followed, glad to forget his thoughts and to defer his return to the fish market for a little longer.  Claude told him that his friend Marjolin now had nothing further to wish for:  he had become an utter animal.  Claude entertained an idea of making him pose on all-fours in future.  Whenever he lost his temper over some disappointing sketch he came to spend whole hours in the idiot’s company, never speaking, but striving to catch his expression when he laughed.

“He’ll be feeding his pigeons, I dare say,” he said; “but unfortunately I don’t know whereabouts Monsieur Gavard’s storeroom is.”

They groped about the cellar.  In the middle of it some water was trickling from a couple of taps in the dim gloom.  The storerooms here are reserved for pigeons exclusively, and all along the trellising they heard faint cooings, like the hushed notes of birds nestling under the leaves when daylight is departing.  Claude began to laugh as he heard it.

“It sounds as though all the lovers in Paris were embracing each other inside here, doesn’t it?” he exclaimed to his companion.

However, they could not find a single storeroom open, and were beginning to think that Marjolin could not be in the cellar, when a sound of loud, smacking kisses made them suddenly halt before a door which stood slightly ajar.  Claude pulled it open and beheld Marjolin, whom Cadine was kissing, whilst he, a mere dummy, offered his face without feeling the slightest thrill at the touch of her lips.

“Oh, so this is your little game, is it?” said Claude with a laugh.

“Oh,” replied Cadine, quite unabashed, “he likes being kissed, because he feels afraid now in the dim light.  You do feel frightened, don’t you?”