‘Good-bye; try to get out of worry!  As for me, I’ve spoilt my life.’

And they watched him walk back towards the house, pushing the perambulator, and supporting Gaston, who was already stumbling with fatigue—­he, Dubuche, himself having his back bent and the heavy tread of an old man.

One o’clock was striking, and they both hurried down towards Bennecourt, saddened and ravenous.  But mournfulness awaited them there as well; a murderous blast had swept over the place, both Faucheurs, husband and wife, and old Porrette, were all dead; and the inn, having fallen into the hands of that goose Melie, was becoming repugnant with its filth and coarseness.  An abominable repast was served them, an omelette with hairs in it, and cutlets smelling of grease, in the centre of the common room, to which an open window admitted the pestilential odour of a dung heap, while the place was so full of flies that they positively blackened the tables.  The heat of the burning afternoon came in with the stench, and Claude and Sandoz did not even feel the courage to order any coffee; they fled.

‘And you who used to extol old Mother Faucheur’s omelettes!’ said Sandoz.  ‘The place is done for.  We are going for a turn, eh?’

Claude was inclined to refuse.  Ever since the morning he had had but one idea—­that of walking on as fast as possible, as if each step would shorten the disagreeable task and bring him back to Paris.  His heart, his head, his whole being had remained there.  He looked neither to right nor to left, he glided along without distinguishing aught of the fields or trees, having but one fixed idea in his brain, a prey to such hallucinations that at certain moments he fancied the point of the Cite rose up and called to him from amid the vast expanse of stubble.  However, Sandoz’s proposal aroused memories in his mind; and, softening somewhat, he replied: 

‘Yes, that’s it, we’ll have a look.’

But as they advanced along the river bank, he became indignant and grieved.  He could scarcely recognise the place.  A bridge had been built to connect Bennecourt with Bonnieres:  a bridge, good heavens! in the place of the old ferry-boat, grating against its chain—­the old black boat which, cutting athwart the current, had been so full of interest to the artistic eye.  Moreover, a dam established down-stream at Port-Villez had raised the level of the river, most of the islands of yore were now submerged, and the little armlets of the stream had become broader.  There were no more pretty nooks, no more rippling alleys amid which one could lose oneself; it was a disaster that inclined one to strangle all the river engineers!

’Why, that clump of pollards still emerging from the water on the left,’ cried Claude, ’was the Barreux Island, where we used to chat together, lying on the grass!  You remember, don’t you?  Ah! the scoundrels!’

Sandoz, who could never see a tree felled without shaking his fist at the wood-cutter, turned pale with anger, and felt exasperated that the authorities had thus dared to mutilate nature.