However, the pleasure which the evening afforded her turned into a feeling of triumph when she caught sight of La Normande and her mother sitting in the upper gallery.  She thereupon puffed herself out more than ever, sent Quenu off to the refreshment bar for a box of caramels, and began to play with her fan, a mother-of-pearl fan, elaborately gilt.  The fish-girl was quite crushed; and bent her head down to listen to her mother, who was whispering to her.  When the performance was over and beautiful Lisa and the beautiful Norman met in the vestibule they exchanged a vague smile.

Florent had dined early at Monsieur Lebigre’s that day.  He was expecting Logre, who had promised to introduce to him a retired sergeant, a capable man, with whom they were to discuss the plan of attack upon the Palais Bourbon and the Hotel de Ville.  The night closed in, and the fine rain, which had begun to fall in the afternoon, shrouded the vast markets in a leaden gloom.  They loomed darkly against the copper-tinted sky, while wisps of murky cloud skimmed by almost on a level with the roofs, looking as though they were caught and torn by the points of the lightning-conductors.  Florent felt depressed by the sight of the muddy streets, and the streaming yellowish rain which seemed to sweep the twilight away and extinguish it in the mire.  He watched the crowds of people who had taken refuge on the foot-pavements of the covered ways, the umbrellas flitting past in the downpour, and the cabs that dashed with increased clatter and speed along the wellnigh deserted roads.  Presently there was a rift in the clouds; and a red glow arose in the west.  Then a whole army of street-sweepers came into sight at the end of the Rue Montmartre, driving a lake of liquid mud before them with their brooms.

Logre did not turn up with the sergeant; Gavard had gone to dine with some friends at Batignolles, and so Florent was reduced to spending the evening alone with Robine.  He had all the talking to himself, and ended by feeling very low-spirited.  His companion merely wagged his beard, and stretched out his hand every quarter of an hour to raise his glass of beer to his lips.  At last Florent grew so bored that he went off to bed.  Robine, however, though left to himself, still lingered there, contemplating his glass with an expression of deep thought.  Rose and the waiter, who had hoped to shut up early, as the coterie of politicians was absent, had to wait a long half hour before he at last made up his mind to leave.

When Florent got to his room, he felt afraid to go to bed.  He was suffering from one of those nervous attacks which sometimes plunged him into horrible nightmares until dawn.  On the previous day he had been to Clamart to attend the funeral of Monsieur Verlaque, who had died after terrible sufferings; and he still felt sad at the recollection of the narrow coffin which he had seen lowered into the earth.  Nor could he banish from his mind the image of Madame