Moreover, he was feeling no small satisfaction at the success of his make-up, which had proved so admirable a disguise. Nini Guinon, of course, knew him quite well, she had seen him only a few days before, he was one of the gang and the reputed murderer of the police officers, if not perhaps of the Minister himself. His face and personality _could_ not have faded from the girl’s memory. Yet for five minutes he had been talking with her, and she had not recognized him! “All goes well,” the journalist congratulated himself, as he made his way into the garden of the _Blue Chestnut_. Yes, he was certainly in luck. The place that Monday afternoon was crowded with customers, a large number seated about the scattered tables, each of which with its load of wine-bottles formed the nucleus of a group of laughing, chattering men and girls. Fandor took his seat unobtrusively at the foot of a table, endeavoring to pass unnoticed while he consumed a modest half-pint and listened to his neighbour’s conversation. He was just asking himself how he could best join in the talk himself when circumstances afforded him the opportunity. A wave of excitement swept the garden from end to end. A gay companion, a musician with an old guitar under his arm, had just appeared, a man Fandor knew of old. It was one Bougille, the vagabond Bougille, the man with the shaggy beard and merry-andrew face, Bougille the honest tramp, the incorrigible wanderer. The old fellow was well known and well loved at the _Blue Chestnut_, where on fête days he would often come to reap the reward in small change of his talents as a music-maker. “A dance, a dance! the _Sonneuse_!” the company demanded with one voice, while all eyes turned in the direction of “The Beadle” and all hands pointed to “Big Ernestine.” Slowly, hands in pockets, with an affected air and a look of satisfaction, which he tried to hide, the man addressed the crowd: “So, it’s us you want to get at ... must have us dance it you again, eh?... well, well, off we go.” Cigarette stuck between his lips, cap cocked over one ear, the apache gripped Ernestine by the nape of the neck, whirled the girl round, and round again, to bring her facing him, then ordered her roughly: “Go ahead, wench; give it ’em, I say!” At this Bougille struck up the tune, and the couple began their evolutions. At first it was a slow waltz, with no precise rhythm, but dubious attitudes, languishing poses, embraces suggestive of passionate abandonment. Then, with a sudden brutality, the man hurled his partner away from him, caught her by the shoulders, threw her to the ground, then passing his arm under her supple waist, raised her to her feet, then lifted her up against his breast; then, three times in succession, while “Big Ernestine” lay passive, “The Beadle,” striking an attitude half Hercules, half acrobat, whirled the woman about in his arms and beat her head on the earth.