The two strolled off with friendly intent, to seek out and ameliorate the loneliness of Cholmondeley Rowden, Esq.
Gethryn tied up his brushes, closed his color box and, flinging on his hat, hurried down the stairs and into the court, nodding to several students who passed with canvas and paint-boxes tucked under their arms. He reached the street, and, going through the Passage Brady, emerged upon the Boulevard Sebastopol.
A car was passing and he boarded it, climbing up to the imperiale. The only vacant seat was between a great, red-faced butcher, and a market woman from the Halles, and although the odors of raw beef and fish were unpleasantly perceptible, he settled himself back and soon became lost in his own thoughts. The butcher had a copy of the Petit Journal and every now and then he imparted bits of it across Gethryn, to the market woman, lingering with relish over the criminal items.
“Dites donc,” he cried, “here is the affair Rigaud!”
Gethryn roused up and listened.
“This morning, I knew it,” cackled the woman, folding her fat hands across her apron. “I said to Sophie, ‘Voyons Sophie,’ I said—”
“Shut up,” interrupted the butcher, “I’m going to read.”
“I was sure of it,” said the woman, addressing Gethryn, “‘Voyons, Sophie,’ said—” but the butcher interrupted her, again reading aloud:
“The condemned struggled fearfully, and it required the united efforts of six gendarmes—”
“Cochon!” said the woman.