Short remnants of the wind now and then came down the narrow street in erratic puffs heavily laden with odors of broken boughs and torn flowers, skimmed the little pools of rain-water in the deep ruts of the unpaved street, and suddenly went away to nothing, like a juggler's butterflies or a young man's money.
It was very picturesque, the Rue Royale.

The rich and poor met together.
The locksmith's swinging key creaked next door to the bank; across the way, crouching, mendicant-like, in the shadow of a great importing-house, was the mud laboratory of the mender of broken combs.
Light balconies overhung the rows of showy shops and stores open for trade this Sunday morning, and pretty Latin faces of the higher class glanced over their savagely-pronged railings upon the passers below.

At some windows hung lace certains, flannel duds at some, and at others only the scraping and sighing one-hinged shutter groaning toward Paris after its neglectful master.
M.St.-Ange stood looking up and down the street for nearly an hour.

But few ladies, only the inveterate mass-goers, were out.

About the entrance of the frequent _cafes_ the masculine gentility stood leaning on canes, with which now one and now another beckoned to Jules, some even adding pantomimic hints of the social cup.
M.St.-Ange remarked to his servant without turning his head that somehow he felt sure he should soon return those _bons_ that the mulatto had lent him.
"What will you do with them ?" "Me!" said Baptiste, quickly; "I will go and see the bull-fight in the Place Congo." "There is to be a bull-fight?
But where is M.Cayetano ?" "Ah, got all his affairs wet in the tornado.