ling of triumph when she caught sight of La Normande and her mother
sitting in the upper gallery. She thereupon puffed herself out more than
ever, sent Quenu off to the refreshment bar for a box of caramels, and
began to play with her fan, a mother-of-pearl fan, elaborately gilt.
The fish-girl was quite crushed; and bent her head down to listen to
her mother, who was whispering to her. When the performance was over
and beautiful Lisa and the beautiful Norman met in the vestibule they
exchanged a vague smile.

Florent had dined early at Monsieur Lebigre's that day. He was expecting
Logre, who had promised to introduce to him a retired sergeant, a
capable man, with whom they were to discuss the plan of attack upon the
Palais Bourbon and the Hotel de Ville. The night closed in, and the
fine rain, which had begun to fall in the afternoon, shrouded the vast
markets in a leaden gloom. They loomed darkly against the copper-tinted
sky, while wisps of murky cloud skimmed by almost on a level with the
roofs, looking as though they were caught and torn by the points of the
lightning-conductors. Florent felt depressed by the sight of the muddy
streets, and the streaming yellowish rain which seemed to sweep the
twilight away and extinguish it in the mire. He watched the crowds of
people who had taken refuge on the foot-pavements of the covered ways,
the umbrellas flitting past in the downpour, and the cabs that dashed
with increased clatter and speed along the wellnigh deserted roads.
Presently there was a rift in the clouds; and a red glow arose in the
west. Then a whole army of street-sweepers came into sight at the end of
the Rue Montmartre, driving a lake of liquid mud before them with their
brooms.

Logre did not turn up with the sergeant; Gavard had gone to dine with
some friends at Batignolles, and so Florent was reduced to spending the
evening alone with Robine. He had all the talking to himself, and ended
by feeling very low-spirited. His companion merely wagged his beard, and
stretched out his hand every quarter of an hour to raise his glass of
beer to his lips. At last Florent grew so bored that he went off to
bed. Robine, however, though left to himself, still lingered there,
contemplating his glass with an expression of deep thought. Rose and the
waiter, who had hoped to shut up early, as the coterie of politicians
was absent, had to wait a long half hour before he at last made up his
mind to leave.

When Florent got