“Yes, indeed. I go in an omnibus. When I have had a good luncheon, without any hurry, at the wine shop down there, I look up my route with a plan of Paris, and the time table of the lines and connections. And then I climb up on the box, open my umbrella and off we go. Oh, I see lots of things, more than you, I bet! I change my surroundings. It is as though I were taking a journey across the world, the people are so different in one street and another. I know my Paris better than anyone. And then, there is nothing more amusing than the entresols. You would not believe what one sees in there at a glance. One guesses at domestic scenes simply at sight of the face of a man who is roaring; one is amused on passing by a barber's shop, to see the barber leave his customer whose face is covered with lather to look out in the street. One exchanges heartfelt glances with the milliners just for fun, as one has no time to alight. Ah, how many things one sees! “It is the drama, the real, the true, the drama of nature, seen as the horses trot by. Heavens! I would not give my excursions in the omnibus for all your stupid excursions in the woods.” “Come and try it, Mongilet, come to the country once just to see.” “I was there once,” he replied, “twenty years ago, and you will never catch me there again.” “Tell us about it, Mongilet.” “If you wish to hear it. This is how it was: “You knew Boivin, the old editorial clerk, whom we called Boileau?” “Yes, perfectly.” “He was my office chum. The rascal had a house at Colombes and always invited me to spend Sunday with him. He would say: “'Come along, Maculotte [he called me Maculotte for fun]. You will see what a nice excursion we will take.' “I let myself be entrapped like an animal, and set out, one morning by the 8 o'clock train. I arrived at a kind of town, a country town where there is nothing to see, and I at length found my way to an old wooden door with an iron bell, at the end of an alley between two walls. “I rang, and waited a long time, and at last the door was opened. What was it that opened it? I could not tell at the first glance. A woman or an ape? The creature was old, ugly, covered with old clothes that looked dirty and wicked. It had chicken's feathers in its hair and looked as though it would devour me. “'What do you want?' she said. “'Mr. Boivin.' “'What do you want of him, of Mr. Boivin?' “I felt ill at ease on being questioned by this fury. I stammered: 'Why-he expects me.' “'Ah, it is you who have come to luncheon?' “'Yes,' I stammered, trembling. “Then, turning toward the house, she cried in an angry tone: “'Boivin, here is your man!' “It was my friend's wife. Little Boivin appeared immediately on the threshold of a sort of barrack of plaster covered with zinc, that looked like a foot stove. He wore white duck trousers covered with stains and a dirty Panama hat.