An odour of dust and frying food hung in the calm air.
Below Therese, some tarts from the Latin Quarter were dancing in a ring on a patch of worn turf singing an infantine roundelay.

With hats fallen on their shoulders, and hair unbound, they held one another by the hands, playing like little children.

They still managed to find a small thread of fresh voice, and their pale countenances, ruffled by brutal caresses, became tenderly coloured with virgin-like blushes, while their great impure eyes filled with moisture.

A few students, smoking clean clay pipes, who were watching them as they turned round, greeted them with ribald jests.
And beyond, on the Seine, on the hillocks, descended the serenity of night, a sort of vague bluish mist, which bathed the trees in transparent vapour.
"Heh! Waiter!" shouted Laurent, leaning over the banister, "what about this dinner ?" Then, changing his mind, he turned to Camille and said: "I say, Camille, let us go for a pull on the river before sitting down to table.

It will give them time to roast the fowl.