‘Hallo, here he comes!’ resumed the sculptor. ‘You’ll see her arrive at his heels.’ In fact, Chaîne came in. He made a great show of drawing a screw of tobacco from his pocket, then filled his pipe, and began to smoke in front of the stove, remaining obstinately silent, as if there were nobody present. And immediately afterwards Mathilde made her appearance like a neighbour who comes in to say ‘Good morning.’ Claude thought that she had grown still thinner, but her eyes were all afire, and her mouth was seemingly enlarged by the loss of two more teeth. The smell of aromatic herbs which she always carried in her uncombed hair seemed to have become rancid. There was no longer the sweetness of camomile, the freshness of aniseed; she filled the place with a horrid odour of peppermint that seemed to be her very breath. ‘Already at work!’ she exclaimed. ‘Good morning.’ And, without minding Claude, she kissed Mahoudeau. Then, after going to shake hands with the painter in her brazen way, she continued: ‘What do you think? I’ve found a box of mallow root, and we will treat ourselves to it for breakfast. Isn’t that nice of me now! We’ll share.’ ‘Thanks,’ said the sculptor, ‘it makes my mouth sticky. I prefer to smoke a pipe.’ And, seeing that Claude was putting on his overcoat again, he asked: ‘Are you going?’ ‘Yes. I want to get the rust off, and breathe the air of Paris a bit.’ All the same, he stopped for another few minutes watching Chaîne and Mathilde, who stuffed themselves with mallow root, each taking a piece by turns. And though he had been warned, he was again amazed when he saw Mahoudeau take up the stick of charcoal and write on the wall: ‘Give me the tobacco you have shoved into your pocket.’ Without a word, Chaîne took out the screw and handed it to the sculptor, who filled his pipe. ‘Well, I’ll see you again soon,’ said Claude. ‘Yes, soon--at any rate, next Thursday, at Sandoz’s.’ Outside, Claude gave an exclamation of surprise on jostling a gentleman, who stood in front of the herbalist’s peering into the shop. ‘What, Jory! What are you doing there?’ Jory’s big pink nose gave a sniff. ‘I? Nothing. I was passing and looked in,’ said he in dismay. Then he decided to laugh, and, as if there were any one to overhear him, lowered his voice to ask: ‘She is next door with our friends, isn’t she? All right; let’s be off, quick!’ And he took the painter with him, telling him all manner of strange stories of that creature Mathilde. ‘But you used to say that she was frightful,’ said Claude, laughing. Jory made a careless gesture. Frightful? No, he had not gone as far as that. Besides, there might be something attractive about a woman even though she had a plain face. Then he expressed his surprise at seeing Claude in Paris, and, when he had been fully posted, and learned that the painter meant to remain there for good, he all at once exclaimed: ‘Listen, I am going to take you with me. You must come to lunch with me at Irma’s.’