He spoke of Mathilde and Chaine without the least show of anger, simply saying that he thought the woman crazy.  Since little Jabouille’s death she had become devout again, though this did not prevent her from scandalising the neighbourhood.  Her business was going to wreck, and bankruptcy seemed impending.  One night, the gas company having cut off the gas in default of payment, she had come to borrow some of their olive oil, which, after all, would not burn in the lamps.  In short, it was quite a disaster; that mysterious shop, with its fleeting shadows of priests’ gowns, its discreet confessional-like whispers, and its odour of sacristy incense, was gliding to the abandonment of ruin.  And the wretchedness had reached such a point that the dried herbs suspended from the ceiling swarmed with spiders, while defunct leeches, which had already turned green, floated on the tops of the glass jars.

‘Hallo, here he comes!’ resumed the sculptor.  ’You’ll see her arrive at his heels.’

In fact, Chaine came in.  He made a great show of drawing a screw of tobacco from his pocket, then filled his pipe, and began to smoke in front of the stove, remaining obstinately silent, as if there were nobody present.  And immediately afterwards Mathilde made her appearance like a neighbour who comes in to say ‘Good morning.’  Claude thought that she had grown still thinner, but her eyes were all afire, and her mouth was seemingly enlarged by the loss of two more teeth.  The smell of aromatic herbs which she always carried in her uncombed hair seemed to have become rancid.  There was no longer the sweetness of camomile, the freshness of aniseed; she filled the place with a horrid odour of peppermint that seemed to be her very breath.

‘Already at work!’ she exclaimed.  ‘Good morning.’  And, without minding Claude, she kissed Mahoudeau.  Then, after going to shake hands with the painter in her brazen way, she continued: 

’What do you think?  I’ve found a box of mallow root, and we will treat ourselves to it for breakfast.  Isn’t that nice of me now!  We’ll share.’

‘Thanks,’ said the sculptor, ’it makes my mouth sticky.  I prefer to smoke a pipe.’

And, seeing that Claude was putting on his overcoat again, he asked:  ‘Are you going?’

‘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 Chaine 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, Chaine 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.