She should not have counted on his impulsive and vagabondish mind.

At the moment when the engine began to breathe hoarsely, Madame Marmet, who was looking out of the window, said, quietly: "I think that Monsieur Choulette is coming." He was walking along the quay, limping, with his hat on the back of his head, his beard unkempt, and dragging an old carpet-bag.

He was almost repulsive; yet, in spite of his fifty years of age, he looked young, so clear and lustrous were his eyes, so much ingenuous audacity had been retained in his yellow, hollow face, so vividly did this old man express the eternal adolescence of the poet and artist.

When she saw him, Therese regretted having invited so strange a companion.

He walked along, throwing a hasty glance into every carriage--a glance which, little by little, became sullen and distrustful.