e reply.

"Is the Rue Pirouette still in existence?"

"Oh, yes," answered the artist. "A very curious corner of old Paris
is the Rue Pirouette. It twists and turns like a dancing girl, and the
houses bulge out like pot-bellied gluttons. I've made an etching of it
that isn't half bad. I'll show it to you when you come to see me. Is it
to the Rue Pirouette that you want to go?"

Florent, who felt easier and more cheerful now that he knew the street
still existed, declared that he did not want to go there; in fact, he
did not want to go anywhere in particular. All his distrust awoke into
fresh life at Claude's insistence.

"Oh! never mind," said the artist, "let's go to the Rue Pirouette all
the same. It has such a fine colour at night time. Come along; it's only
a couple of yards away."

Florent felt constrained to follow him, and the two men walked off, side
by side, stepping over the hampers and vegetables like a couple of old
friends. On the footway of the Rue Rambuteau there were some immense
heaps of cauliflowers, symmetrically piled up like so many cannonballs.
The soft-white flowers spread out like huge roses in the midst of their
thick green leaves, and the piles had something of the appearance
of bridal bouquets ranged in a row in colossal flower stands. Claude
stopped in front of them, venting cries of admiration.

Then, on turning into the Rue Pirouette, which was just opposite,
he pointed out each house to his companion, and explained his views
concerning it. There was only a single gas lamp, burning in a corner.
The buildings, which had settled down and swollen, threw their
pent-houses forward in such wise as to justify Claude's allusion to
pot-bellied gluttons, whilst their gables receded, and on either side
they clung to their neighbours for support. Three or four, however,
standing in gloomy recesses, appeared to be on the point of toppling
forward. The solitary gas lamp illumined one which was snowy with a
fresh coat of whitewash, suggesting some flabby broken-down old dowager,
powdered and bedaubed in the hope of appearing young. Then the others
stretched away into the darkness, bruised, dented, and cracked,
greeny with the fall of water from their roofs, and displaying such
an extraordinary variety of attitudes and tints that Claude could not
refrain from laughing as he contemplated them.

Florent, however, came to stand at the corner of the rue de Mondetour,
in front of the last house but one o