ther cut up into tiny morsels.
Then, prior to the siesta, came the promenade.

Sandoz and Claude found themselves once more out-of-doors, walking
down the broad avenues with Dubuche, who again propelled Alice's
perambulator, whilst Gaston walked beside him. They talked about the
estate as they went towards the gate. The master glanced over the park
with timid, nervous eyes, as if he did not feel at home. Besides he did
not know anything; he did not occupy himself about anything. He appeared
even to have forgotten the profession which he was said to be ignorant
of, and seemed to have gone astray, to be bowed down by sheer inaction.

'And your parents, how are they?' asked Sandoz.

A spark was once more kindled in Dubuche's dim eyes.

'Oh! my parents are happy,' he said; 'I bought them a little house,
where they live on the annuity which I had specified in my marriage
contract. Well, you see, mamma had advanced enough money for my
education, and I had to return it to her, as I had promised, eh? Yes, I
can at least say that my parents have nothing to reproach me with.'

Having reached the gate, they tarried there for a few minutes. At last,
still looking crushed, Dubuche shook hands with his old comrades; and
retaining Claude's hand in his, he concluded, as if making a simple
statement of fact quite devoid of anger:

'Good-bye; try to get out of worry! As for me, I've spoilt my life.'

And they watched him walk back towards the house, pushing the
perambulator, and supporting Gaston, who was already stumbling with
fatigue--he, Dubuche, himself having his back bent and the heavy tread
of an old man.

One o'clock was striking, and they both hurried down towards Bennecourt,
saddened and ravenous. But mournfulness awaited them there as well; a
murderous blast had swept over the place, both Faucheurs, husband and
wife, and old Porrette, were all dead; and the inn, having fallen into
the hands of that goose Melie, was becoming repugnant with its filth and
coarseness. An abominable repast was served them, an omelette with hairs
in it, and cutlets smelling of grease, in the centre of the common room,
to which an open window admitted the pestilential odour of a dung heap,
while the place was so full of flies that they positively blackened the
tables. The heat of the burning afternoon came in with the stench, and
Claude and Sandoz did not even feel the courage to order any coffee;
they fled.

'And you who used to extol old