When he caught sight of Lisa, he at once sprang up, blushing at having been caught sprawling in this way.  He always seemed very nervous and ill at ease in Madame Quenu’s presence; and when she asked him if Monsieur Gavard was there, he stammered out:  “No, I don’t think so.  He was here a little while ago, but he want away again.”

Lisa looked at him, smiling; she had a great liking for him.  But feeling something warm brush against her hand, which was hanging by her side, she raised a little shriek.  Some live rabbits were thrusting their noses out of a box under the counter of the stall, and sniffing at her skirts.

“Oh,” she exclaimed with a laugh, “it’s your rabbits that are tickling me.”

Then she stooped and attempted to stroke a white rabbit, which darted in alarm into a corner of the box.

“Will Monsieur Gavard be back soon, do you think?” she asked, as she again rose erect.

Marjolin once more replied that he did not know; then in a hesitating way he continued:  “He’s very likely gone down into the cellars.  He told me, I think, that he was going there.”

“Well, I think I’ll wait for him, then,” replied Lisa.  “Could you let him know that I am here? or I might go down to him, perhaps.  Yes, that’s a good idea; I’ve been intending to go and have a look at the cellars for these last five years.  You’ll take me down, won’t you, and explain things to me?”

Marjolin blushed crimson, and, hurrying out of the stall, walked on in front of her, leaving the poultry to look after itself.  “Of course I will,” said he.  “I’ll do anything you wish, Madame Lisa.”

When they got down below, the beautiful Lisa felt quite suffocated by the dank atmosphere of the cellar.  She stood at the bottom step, and raised her eyes to look at the vaulted roofing of red and white bricks arching slightly between the iron ribs upheld by small columns.  What made her hesitate more than the gloominess of the place was a warm, penetrating odour, the exhalations of large numbers of living creatures, which irritated her nostrils and throat.

“What a nasty smell!” she exclaimed.  “It must be very unhealthy down here.”

“It never does me any harm,” replied Marjolin in astonishment.  “There’s nothing unpleasant about the smell when you’ve got accustomed to it; and it’s very warm and cosy down here in the wintertime.”

As Lisa followed him, however, she declared that the strong scent of the poultry quite turned her stomach, and that she would certainly not be able to eat a fowl for the next two months.  All around her, the storerooms, the small cabins where the stallkeepers keep their live stock, formed regular streets, intersecting each other at right angles.  There were only a few scattered gas lights, and the little alleys seemed wrapped in sleep like the lanes of a village where the inhabitants have all gone to bed.  Marjolin made Lisa feel the close-meshed wiring, stretched on a framework of cast iron; and as she made her way along one of the streets she amused herself by reading the names of the different tenants, which were inscribed on blue labels.