Gethryn tied up his brushes, closed his color box and, flinging on his hat, hurried down the stairs and into the court, nodding to several students who passed with canvas and paint-boxes tucked under their arms. He reached the street, and, going through the Passage Brady, emerged upon the Boulevard Sebastopol. A car was passing and he boarded it, climbing up to the imperiale. The only vacant seat was between a great, red-faced butcher, and a market woman from the Halles, and although the odors of raw beef and fish were unpleasantly perceptible, he settled himself back and soon became lost in his own thoughts. The butcher had a copy of the _Petit Journal_ and every now and then he imparted bits of it across Gethryn, to the market woman, lingering with relish over the criminal items. “Dites donc,” he cried, “here is the affair Rigaud!” Gethryn roused up and listened. “This morning, I knew it,” cackled the woman, folding her fat hands across her apron. “I said to Sophie, ‘Voyons Sophie,’ I said—” “Shut up,” interrupted the butcher, “I’m going to read.” “I was sure of it,” said the woman, addressing Gethryn, “‘Voyons, Sophie,’ said—” but the butcher interrupted her, again reading aloud: “The condemned struggled fearfully, and it required the united efforts of six gendarmes—” “Cochon!” said the woman. “Listen, will you!” cried the man. “Some disturbance was caused by a gamin who broke from the crowd and attacked a soldier. But the miserable was seized and carried off, screaming. Two gold pieces of 20 francs each fell from some hiding-place in his ragged clothes and were taken charge of by the police.” The man paused and gloated over the column. “Here,” he cried, “Listen—‘Even under the knife the condemned—’” Gethryn rose roughly and, crowding past the man, descended the steps and, entering the car below, sat down there. “Butor!” roared the butcher. “Cochon! He trod on my foot!” “He is an English pig!” sneered the woman, reaching for the newspaper. “Let me read it now,” she whined. “Hands off,” growled the man, “I’ll read you what I think good.” “But it’s my paper.” “It’s mine now—shut up.”