"Yes," the plate-layer answered, "but it's late, for the clock down there in the valley struck seven several minutes ago."
The train had gone by: the three red lamps fastened at the end of it were already lost in the morning mist.
The man who spoke to the plate-layer was no other than François Paul, the tramp who had been discharged by the magistrate installed at the château of Beaulieu, at precisely the same time the day before, after a brief examination. In spite of the deep wrinkle furrowed in his brow the man seemed to make an effort to appear friendly and to want to carry on the conversation.
"There aren't many people in this morning train," he remarked, "specially in the first-class carriages."
The plate-layer appeared in no wise unwilling to postpone for a few moments his tiring and chilly underground patrol; he put down his pick before answering.
"Well, that's not surprising, is it? People who are rich enough to travel first-class always come by the express which gets to Brives at 2.50 a.m."
"I see," said François Paul; "that's reasonable: and more practical for travellers to Brives or Cahors. But what about the people who want to get out at Gourdon, or Souillac, or Verrières, or any of the small stations where the express doesn't stop?"
"I don't know," said the plate-layer; "but I suppose they have to get out at Brives or Cahors and drive, or else travel by the day trains, which are fast to Brives and slow afterwards."
François Paul did not press the matter. He lit a pipe and breathed upon his benumbed fingers.
"Hard times, these, and no mistake!"