s his only fault is that he was born
four centuries too late.'

Then, as the heat became too great, he took off his over-coat, adding:

'He's a long while fetching his tobacco.'

'Oh! his tobacco! I know what that means,' said Mahoudeau, who had set
to work at his bust, finishing the whiskers; 'he has simply gone next
door.'

'Oh! so you still see the herbalist?'

'Yes, she comes in and out.'

He spoke of Mathilde and Chaine without the least show of anger, simply
saying that he thought the woman crazy. Since little Jabouille's death
she had become devout again, though this did not prevent her from
scandalising the neighbourhood. Her business was going to wreck, and
bankruptcy seemed impending. One night, the gas company having cut off
the gas in default of payment, she had come to borrow some of their
olive oil, which, after all, would not burn in the lamps. In short, it
was quite a disaster; that mysterious shop, with its fleeting shadows of
priests' gowns, its discreet confessional-like whispers, and its odour
of sacristy incense, was gliding to the abandonment of ruin. And the
wretchedness had reached such a point that the dried herbs suspended
from the ceiling swarmed with spiders, while defunct leeches, which had
already turned green, floated on the tops of the glass jars.

'Hallo, here he comes!' resumed the sculptor. 'You'll see her arrive at
his heels.'

In fact, Chaine came in. He made a great show of drawing a screw of
tobacco from his pocket, then filled his pipe, and began to smoke in
front of the stove, remaining obstinately silent, as if there were
nobody present. And immediately afterwards Mathilde made her appearance
like a neighbour who comes in to say 'Good morning.' Claude thought that
she had grown still thinner, but her eyes were all afire, and her mouth
was seemingly enlarged by the loss of two more teeth. The smell of
aromatic herbs which she always carried in her uncombed hair seemed to
have become rancid. There was no longer the sweetness of camomile,
the freshness of aniseed; she filled the place with a horrid odour of
peppermint that seemed to be her very breath.

'Already at work!' she exclaimed. 'Good morning.' And, without minding
Claude, she kissed Mahoudeau. Then, after going to shake hands with the
painter in her brazen way, she continued:

'What do you think? I've found a box of mallow root, and we will treat
ourselves to it for breakfast. Isn't that nice of me now! We'll s