ing away by herself, feeling ashamed of being seen in the streets
on a man's arm. Then, one day when the rain fell all of a sudden, she
was obliged to let him come downstairs with an umbrella. The rain having
ceased almost immediately, she sent him back when they reached the other
side of the Pont Louis-Philippe. They only remained a few moments beside
the parapet, looking at the Mail, and happy at being together in the
open air. Down below, large barges, moored against the quay, and full
of apples, were ranged four rows deep, so close together that the planks
thrown across them made a continuous path for the women and children
running to and fro. They were amused by the sight of all that fruit,
those enormous piles littering the banks, the round baskets which were
carried hither and thither, while a strong odour, suggestive of cider in
fermentation, mingled with the moist gusts from the river.

A week later, when the sun again showed itself, and Claude extolled the
solitude of the quays round the Isle Saint Louis, Christine consented to
take a walk. They strolled up the Quai de Bourbon and the Quai d'Anjou,
pausing at every few steps and growing interested in the various scenes
of river life; the dredger whose buckets grated against their chains,
the floating wash-house, which resounded with the hubbub of a quarrel,
and the steam cranes busy unloading the lighters. She did not cease to
wonder at one thought which came to her. Was it possible that yonder
Quai des Ormes, so full of life across the stream, that this Quai Henri
IV., with its broad embankment and lower shore, where bands of children
and dogs rolled over in the sand, that this panorama of an active,
densely-populated capital was the same accursed scene that had appeared
to her for a moment in a gory flash on the night of her arrival? They
went round the point of the island, strolling more leisurely still to
enjoy the solitude and tranquillity which the old historic mansions seem
to have implanted there. They watched the water seething between the
wooden piles of the Estacade, and returned by way of the Quai de Bethune
and the Quai d'Orleans, instinctively drawn closer to each other by
the widening of the stream, keeping elbow to elbow at sight of the vast
flow, with their eyes fixed on the distant Halle aux Vins and the
Jardin des Plantes. In the pale sky, the cupolas of the public buildings
assumed a bluish hue. When they reached the Pont St. Louis, Claude ha