Whilst speaking she took hold of his soft chin, as she often did, without recognising that he was no longer a child; and perhaps she allowed her hand to linger there a little longer than was her wont.  At all events, Marjolin, usually so bashful, was thrilled by the caress, and all at once he impetuously sprang forward, clasped Lisa by the shoulders, and pressed his lips to her soft cheeks.  She raised no cry, but turned very pale at this sudden attack, which showed her how imprudent she had been.  And then, freeing herself from the embrace, she raised her arm, as she had seen men do in slaughter houses, clenched her comely fist, and knocked Marjolin down with a single blow, planted straight between his eyes; and as he fell his head came into collision with one of the stone slabs, and was split open.  Just at that moment the hoarse and prolonged crowing of a cock sounded through the gloom.

Handsome Lisa, however, remained perfectly cool.  Her lips were tightly compressed, and her bosom had recovered its wonted immobility.  Up above she could hear the heavy rumbling of the markets, and through the vent-holes alongside the Rue Rambuteau the noise of the street traffic made its way into the oppressive silence of the cellar.  Lisa reflected that her own strong arm had saved her; and then, fearing lest some one should come and find her there, she hastened off, without giving a glance at Marjolin.  As she climbed the steps, after passing through the grated entrance of the cellars, the daylight brought her great relief.

She returned to the shop, quite calm, and only looking a little pale.

“You’ve been a long time,” Quenu said to her.

“I can’t find Gavard.  I have looked for him everywhere,” she quietly replied.  “We shall have to eat our leg of mutton without him.”

Then she filled the lard pot, which she noticed was empty; and cut some pork chops for her friend Madame Taboureau, who had sent her little servant for them.  The blows which she dealt with her cleaver reminded her of Marjolin.  She felt that she had nothing to reproach herself with.  She had acted like an honest woman.  She was not going to disturb her peace of mind; she was too happy to do anything to compromise herself.  However, she glanced at Quenu, whose neck was coarse and ruddy, and whose shaven chin looked as rough as knotted wood; whereas Marjolin’s chin and neck resembled rosy satin.  But then she must not think of him any more, for he was no longer a child.  She regretted it, and could not help thinking that children grew up much too quickly.

A slight flush came back to her cheeks, and Quenu considered that she looked wonderfully blooming.  He came and sat down beside her at the counter for a moment or two.  “You ought to go out oftener,” said he; “it does you good.  We’ll go to the theatre together one of these nights, if you like; to the Gaite, eh?  Madame Taboureau has been to see the piece they are playing there, and she declares it’s splendid.”