The waggons rumbled on, and the horses picked their own way, with drooping heads.  The stranger whom Madame Francois had befriended was lying on his stomach, with his long legs lost amongst the turnips which filled the back part of the cart, whilst his face was buried amidst the spreading piles of carrot bunches.  With weary, extended arms he clutched hold of his vegetable couch in fear of being thrown to the ground by one of the waggon’s jolts, and his eyes were fixed on the two long lines of gas lamps which stretched away in front of him till they mingled with a swarm of other lights in the distance atop of the slope.  Far away on the horizon floated a spreading, whitish vapour, showing where Paris slept amidst the luminous haze of all those flamelets.

“I come from Nanterre, and my name’s Madame Francois,” said the market gardener presently.  “Since my poor man died I go to the markets every morning myself.  It’s a hard life, as you may guess.  And who are you?”

“My name’s Florent, I come from a distance,” replied the stranger, with embarrassment.  “Please excuse me, but I’m really so tired that it is painful to me to talk.”

He was evidently unwilling to say anything more, and so Madame Francois relapsed into silence, and allowed the reins to fall loosely on the back of Balthazar, who went his way like an animal acquainted with every stone of the road.

Meantime, with his eyes still fixed upon the far-spreading glare of Paris, Florent was pondering over the story which he had refused to communicate to Madame Francois.  After making his escape from Cayenne, whither he had been transported for his participation in the resistance to Louis Napoleon’s Coup d’Etat, he had wandered about Dutch Guiana for a couple of years, burning to return to France, yet dreading the Imperial police.  At last, however, he once more saw before him the beloved and mighty city which he had so keenly regretted and so ardently longed for.  He would hide himself there, he told himself, and again lead the quiet, peaceable life that he had lived years ago.  The police would never be any the wiser; and everyone would imagine, indeed, that he had died over yonder, across the sea.  Then he thought of his arrival at Havre, where he had landed with only some fifteen francs tied up in a corner of his handkerchief.  He had been able to pay for a seat in the coach as far as Rouen, but from that point he had been forced to continue his journey on foot, as he had scarcely thirty sous left of his little store.  At Vernon his last copper had gone in bread.  After that he had no clear recollection of anything.  He fancied that he could remember having slept for several hours in a ditch, and having shown the papers with which he had provided himself to a gendarme; however, he had only a very confused idea of what had happened.  He had left Vernon without any breakfast, seized every now and then with hopeless despair and raging pangs which had driven him to munch the leaves of the hedges as he tramped along.  A prey to cramp and fright, his body bent, his sight dimmed, and his feet sore, he had continued his weary march, ever drawn onwards in a semi-unconscious state by a vision of Paris, which, far, far away, beyond the horizon, seemed to be summoning him and waiting for him.