“You see how those Mehudins turn their backs upon him now that he’s come to grief,” said Madame Lecoeur.

“Well, and they’re quite right too,” replied Mademoiselle Saget.  “Besides, matters are settled now, my dear, and we’re to have no more disputes.  You’ve every reason to be satisfied; leave the others to act as they please.”

“It’s only the old woman who is laughing,” La Sarriette remarked; “La Normande looks anything but happy.”

Meantime, upstairs in his bedroom, Florent allowed himself to be taken as unresistingly as a sheep.  The police officers sprang roughly upon him, expecting, no doubt, that they would meet with a desperate resistance.  He quietly begged them to leave go of him; and then sat down on a chair while they packed up his papers, and the red scarves, armlets, and banners.  He did not seem at all surprised at this ending; indeed, it was something of a relief to him, though he would not frankly confess it.  But he suffered acutely at thought of the bitter hatred which had sent him into that room; he recalled Auguste’s pale face and the sniggering looks of the fish-wives; he bethought himself of old Madame Mehudin’s words, La Normande’s silence, and the empty shop downstairs.  The markets were leagued against him, he reflected; the whole neighbourhood had conspired to hand him over to the police.  The mud of those greasy streets had risen up all around to overwhelm him!

And amidst all the round faces which flitted before his mind’s eye there suddenly appeared that of Quenu, and a spasm of mortal agony contracted his heart.

“Come, get along downstairs!” exclaimed one of the officers, roughly.

Florent rose and proceeded to go downstairs.  When he reached the second floor he asked to be allowed to return; he had forgotten something, he said.  But the officers refused to let him go back, and began to hustle him forward.  Then he besought them to let him return to his room again, and even offered them the money he had in his pocket.  Two of them at last consented to return with him, threatening to blow his brains out should he attempt to play them any trick; and they drew their revolvers out of their pockets as they spoke.  However, on reaching his room once more Florent simply went straight to the chaffinch’s cage, took the bird out of it, kissed it between its wings, and set it at liberty.  He watched it fly away through the open window, into the sunshine, and alight, as though giddy, on the roof of the fish market.  Then it flew off again and disappeared over the markets in the direction of the Square des Innocents.  For a moment longer Florent remained face to face with the sky, the free and open sky; and he thought of the wood-pigeons cooing in the garden of the Tuileries, and of those other pigeons down in the market cellars with their throats slit by Marjolin’s knife.  Then he felt quite broken, and turned and followed the officers, who were putting their revolvers back into their pockets as they shrugged their shoulders.