Men and women sat by doorways, in front of little shops, on the benches in wide thoroughfares.
The Latin Quarter blazed in silence and the gates of the great schools were shut.

The merchants of lemonade wheeled their tin vessels through the streets and the bottles crowned with lemons looked pleasant to hot eyes.
For the dust lay thick upon the leaves of trees and the lips of men, and the air was heavy with the over-fulfilment of spring's promise.
Septimus was sitting with Hegisippe Cruchot outside the little cafe of the iron tables painted yellow where first they had consorted.
"_Mon ami_," said he, "you are one of the phenomena that make me believe in the _bon Dieu_.

If you hadn't dragged me from under the wheels of the cab, I should have been killed, and if I had been killed you wouldn't have introduced me to your aunt who can cook, and what I should have done without your aunt heaven only knows.

I owe you much." "_Bah, mon vieux_," said Hegisippe, "what are you talking about?
You owe me nothing." "I owe you three lives," said Septimus..