On Saturday at seven in the morning the _citoyen_ Blaise, in a black cocked-hat, scarlet waistcoat, doe-skin breeches, and boots with yellow tops, rapped with the handle of his riding-whip at the studio door. The _citoyenne_ Gamelin was in the room in polite conversation with the _citoyen_ Brotteaux, while Evariste stood before a bit of looking-glass knotting his high white cravat. "A pleasant journey, Monsieur Blaise!" the _citoyenne_ greeted him. "But, as you are going to paint landscapes, why don't you take Monsieur Brotteaux, who is a painter?" "Well, well," said Jean Blaise, "will you come with us, _citoyen_ Brotteaux?" On being assured he would not be intruding, Brotteaux, a man of a sociable temper and fond of all amusements, accepted the invitation. The _citoyenne_ Elodie had climbed the four storeys to embrace the widow Gamelin, whom she called her good mother. She was in white from head to foot, and smelt of lavender. An old two-horsed travelling _berline_ stood waiting in the Place, with the hood down. Rose Thevenin occupied the back seat with Julienne Hasard. Elodie made the actress sit on the right, took the left-hand place herself and put the slim Julienne between the two of them. Brotteaux settled himself, back to the horses, facing the _citoyenne_ Thevenin; Philippe Dubois, opposite the _citoyenne_ Hasard; Evariste opposite Elodie. As for Philippe Desmahis, he planted his athletic figure on the box, on the coachman's left, and proceeded to amaze that worthy with a traveller's tale about a country in America where the trees bore chitterlings and saveloys by way of fruit. The _citoyen_ Blaise, who was a capital rider, took the road on horseback, going on in front to escape the dust from the _berline_. As the wheels rattled merrily over the suburban roads the travellers began to forget their cares, and at sight of the green fields and trees and sky, their minds turned to gay and pleasant thoughts. Elodie dreamed she was surely born to rear poultry with Evariste, a country justice, to help her, in some village on a river bank beside a wood. The roadside elms whirled by as they sped along. Outside the villages the peasants' mastiffs dashed out to intercept the carriage and barked at the horses, while a fat spaniel, lying in the roadway, struggled reluctantly to its feet; the fowls scattered and fled; the geese in a close-packed band waddled slowly out of the way. The children, with their fresh morning faces, watched the company go by. It was a hot day and a cloudless sky. The parched earth was thirsting for rain. They alighted just outside Villejuif. On their way through the little town, Desmahis went into a fruiterer's to buy cherries for the overheated _citoyennes_. The shop-keeper was a pretty woman, and Desmahis showed no signs of reappearing. Philippe Dubois shouted to him, using the nickname his friends constantly gave him: "Ho there! Barbaroux!... Barbaroux!"