“Monsieur Gavard’s place is quite at the far end,” said the young man, still walking on.

They turned to the left, and found themselves in a sort of blind alley, a dark, gloomy spot where not a ray of light penetrated.  Gavard was not there.

“Oh, it makes no difference,” said Marjolin.  “I can show you our birds just the same.  I have a key of the storeroom.”

Lisa followed him into the darkness.

“You don’t suppose that I can see your birds in this black oven, do you?” she asked, laughing.

Marjolin did not reply at once; but presently he stammered out that there was always a candle in the storeroom.  He was fumbling about the lock, and seemed quite unable to find the keyhole.  As Lisa came up to help him, she felt a hot breath on her neck; and when the young man had at last succeeded in opening the door and lighted the candle, she saw that he was trembling.

“You silly fellow!” she exclaimed, “to get yourself into such a state just because a door won’t open!  Why, you’re no better than a girl, in spite of your big fists!”

She stepped inside the storeroom.  Gavard had rented two compartments, which he had thrown into one by removing the partition between them.  In the dirt on the floor wallowed the larger birds—­the geese, turkeys, and ducks—­while up above, on tiers of shelves, were boxes with barred fronts containing fowls and rabbits.  The grating of the storeroom was so coated with dust and cobwebs that it looked as though covered with grey blinds.  The woodwork down below was rotting, and covered with filth.  Lisa, however, not wishing to vex Marjolin, refrained from any further expression of disgust.  She pushed her fingers between the bars of the boxes, and began to lament the fate of the unhappy fowls, which were so closely huddled together and could not even stand upright.  Then she stroked a duck with a broken leg which was squatting in a corner, and the young man told her that it would be killed that very evening, for fear lest it should die during the night.

“But what do they do for food?” asked Lisa.

Thereupon he explained to her that poultry would not eat in the dark, and that it was necessary to light a candle and wait there till they had finished their meal.

“It amuses me to watch them,” he continued; “I often stay here with a light for hours altogether.  You should see how they peck away; and when I hide the flame of the candle with my hand they all stand stock-still with their necks in the air, just as though the sun had set.  It is against the rules to leave a lighted candle here and go away.  One of the dealers, old Mother Palette—­you know her, don’t you?—­nearly burned the whole place down the other day.  A fowl must have knocked the candle over into the straw while she was away.”

“A pretty thing, isn’t it,” said Lisa, “for fowls to insist upon having the chandeliers lighted up every time they take a meal?”