The heavy carriage stopped. And the young lawyer, pushing his wife, said to her quickly: “Go inside; I'm going up on top, so that I may smoke at least one cigarette before lunch.” She had no time to answer. The conductor, who had seized her by the arm to help her up the step, pushed her inside, and she fell into a seat, bewildered, looking through the back window at the feet of her husband as he climbed up to the top of the vehicle. And she sat there motionless, between a fat man who smelled of cheap tobacco and an old woman who smelled of garlic. All the other passengers were lined up in silence--a grocer's boy, a young girl, a soldier, a gentleman with gold-rimmed spectacles and a big silk hat, two ladies with a self-satisfied and crabbed look, which seemed to say: “We are riding in this thing, but we don't have to,” two sisters of charity and an undertaker. They looked like a collection of caricatures. The jolting of the wagon made them wag their heads and the shaking of the wheels seemed to stupefy them--they all looked as though they were asleep. The young woman remained motionless. “Why didn't he come inside with me?” she was saying to herself. An unaccountable sadness seemed to be hanging over her. He really need not have acted so. The sisters motioned to the conductor to stop, and they got off one after the other, leaving in their wake the pungent smell of camphor. The bus started tip and soon stopped again. And in got a cook, red-faced and out of breath. She sat down and placed her basket of provisions on her knees. A strong odor of dish-water filled the vehicle. “It's further than I imagined,” thought Jeanne. The undertaker went out, and was replaced by a coachman who seemed to bring the atmosphere of the stable with him. The young girl had as a successor a messenger, the odor of whose feet showed that he was continually walking. The lawyer's wife began to feel ill at ease, nauseated, ready to cry without knowing why. Other persons left and others entered. The stage went on through interminable streets, stopping at stations and starting again. “How far it is!” thought Jeanne. “I hope he hasn't gone to sleep! He has been so tired the last few days.” Little by little all the passengers left. She was left alone, all alone. The conductor cried: “Vaugirard!” Seeing that she did not move, he repeated: “Vaugirard!” She looked at him, understanding that he was speaking to her, as there was no one else there. For the third time the man said: “Vaugirard!” Then she asked: “Where are we?” He answered gruffly: “We're at Vaugirard, of course! I have been yelling it for the last half hour!” “Is it far from the Boulevard?” she said. “Which boulevard?” “The Boulevard des Italiens.” “We passed that a long time ago!” “Would you mind telling my husband?” “Your husband! Where is he?” “On the top of the bus.” “On the top! There hasn't been anybody there for a long time.” She started, terrified.