"But what are those?" he began, scowling at two high chimneys standing side by side. "Tiens! Sainte Clotilde! But the evening is clear then, par exemple, that one sees so far and so well. It is all so wonderful--but I have never understood it till now. Ah! Saint Etienne-du-Mont! That I know, since the dome of the Panthéon is quite near. Sapristi! What is that? L'amour, Papa Labesse, l'amour,--that which, finally, thou canst never understand, poor Papa Labesse! Tiens! Notre Dame! Ah, ça! A woman like herself, what?--like Paris that sings of love! My pigeon!" So, for an hour, the thin stream of jumbled phrases slipped from his dry lips. He talked softly,--no one could have heard him at two paces,--but the babble never ceased. At seven o'clock a woman carrying a basket appeared upon the fortifications from the direction of the gate, and, pausing at the top of the slope, looked down upon the mower. "Hé! Allô--labago! Bom-biste!" she cried. The man turned. There was no such thing as not being able to hear La Trompette. And suddenly Papa Labesse held his peace. Bombiste came up the slope with a long leisurely stride, flung his scythe upon the grass, and placing his arm around La Trompette's neck, kissed her loudly on both cheeks. "Name of God!" he said. "But I have thirst!" They seated themselves side by side and close together, with their backs to Papa Labesse, some fifty metres distant, and La Trompette opened her basket. Presently Bombiste lowered his left elbow and raised his right in the act of drawing a cork, and then raised his left again and took a long draught from the bottle. At the same moment Papa Labesse swung round a quarter circle to the right, as if upon a pivot, and began to crawl very slowly forward. "Chouette!" said Bombiste to La Trompette, biting a great mouthful from a slice of rye bread and cheese, "c'est du suisse!" "Thou deservest water and a raw turnip!" replied the woman, assuming a tone of angry reproach. "If it were not I, thou knowest, long since thou wouldst have been put ashore, heart of an artichoke--va!" "I am like that," observed Bombiste, with regret. "But what wouldst thou, name of God! They come, they go: but at the end it is always thou." The woman made no reply, and Papa Labesse, two metres away, laid his gnarled brown fingers on the handle of Bombiste's discarded scythe. Bombiste capped his philosophy with a second long draught of wine, and then, taking a stupendous bite of bread and cheese, glanced slyly at his companion out of the corners of his eyes. She was gazing straight before her, her teeth nicking the edge of her lower lip. "What hast thou?" mumbled the man, with his mouth full. "She was very pretty," answered La Trompette, "and she loved thee, that garce. But thou art going to tell me that it is finished forever!--That never, never," she went on, clenching her hands, "wilt thou see her again! Else I plant thee, and thou canst earn thine own white pieces,--mackerel!"