‘Yes. I want to get the rust off, and breathe the air of Paris a bit.’
All the same, he stopped for another few minutes watching Chaîne and Mathilde, who stuffed themselves with mallow root, each taking a piece by turns. And though he had been warned, he was again amazed when he saw Mahoudeau take up the stick of charcoal and write on the wall: ‘Give me the tobacco you have shoved into your pocket.’
Without a word, Chaîne took out the screw and handed it to the sculptor, who filled his pipe.
‘Well, I’ll see you again soon,’ said Claude.
‘Yes, soon—at any rate, next Thursday, at Sandoz’s.’
Outside, Claude gave an exclamation of surprise on jostling a gentleman, who stood in front of the herbalist’s peering into the shop.
‘What, Jory! What are you doing there?’
Jory’s big pink nose gave a sniff.
‘I? Nothing. I was passing and looked in,’ said he in dismay.
Then he decided to laugh, and, as if there were any one to overhear him, lowered his voice to ask: