The can of turpentine suspended under the bridge, between the paddle-boxes, did not even oscillate.
The passengers had become silent.
The Parisian, however, hummed between his teeth the song of Béranger—“Un jour le bon Dieu s’éveillant.”
One of the St. Malo passengers addressed him:
“You are from Paris, sir?”
“Yes, sir. Il mit la tête à la fenêtre.”
“What do they do in Paris?”
“Leur planète a péri, peut-être.—In Paris, sir, things are going on very badly.”
“Then it’s the same ashore as at sea.”
“It is true; we have an abominable fog here.”