Volume 14 / Part 2 — III THE EFFECTS OF MUSIC AND OF A MATELOTE

It was a magnificent morning and the clock had just struck nine, when Edmond Didier appeared, very carefully dressed, at his friend Freluchon’s, who had just left his bed.

“What, you lazy fellow! not dressed yet! And it’s nine o’clock, and the weather is superb, and the first days of June are the finest of the whole year!”

“Bah! what do I care for all that? It matters little to me what time it is. I rise late because I sat up very late. A little egg-supper, with some very interesting ladies from the Folies-Dramatiques. Artistes, you see—they are the only really agreeable women!”

“You exaggerate, Freluchon, my dear fellow! We have artistes also who put on airs and are forever posing in company.”

“To them we say zut!—dramatic style.—But how fine you are this morning! Have you something on hand for to-day?”

“Certainly; this is the day that we are going to Chelles, to see those ladies I spoke to you about.”

“We are going is very pretty! you are going, perhaps—that’s all right. But why should I, who don’t know the ladies in question—why should I go with you?”

“Because it’s somewhere to go; it will give you a chance to see that part of the suburbs of Paris, which is very beautiful. We will dine there; we will have a matelote; Gournay is famous for them and it’s close by.”

“That’s an inducement; I am passionately fond of matelote. In Parisian restaurants it’s execrable, as a general rule; you can’t get a good one unless you are right on the water.”

“While I go to call on the ladies, you can find out the best restaurant and order the dinner.”

“The best place to get a matelote is ordinarily the house of some fisherman who sells wine.”

“Oh! Freluchon, if you knew with what pleasure I shall see the lovely Agathe again! Her name is Agathe——”

“So you told me.”

“She has dark-blue eyes with such a sweet, amiable expression; a slender, graceful figure; perfect grace in every movement——”

“Like a cat.”

“Come, dress quickly, and we will go to the Strasbourg station.”

“Are we going to Strasbourg first? That will be the longest way.”

“Pshaw! if you began to talk nonsense!——”

“I hope to continue.—Well, if it must be, I proceed to sacrifice myself. After all, a day in the country will do me good, and I shall not be sorry to form a little acquaintance with some rustic beauty. A woman of nature—that will be a novelty; for the stage is very far from nature.—Speaking of nature, do you know what has happened to Chamoureau?”

“I have heard that he has made a fortune—or inherited one; twenty thousand francs a year; is it true?”

“Quite true; and, what is even truer, since he became rich, he doesn’t speak to his old friends. He hardly looks at me—at me, whom he never used to quit! He puts on the airs of a great noble! As you can imagine, it amuses me beyond words; and so, not long ago, I said to him in the foyer at the Opéra, where he seemed to be in deadly terror that I would take his arm:

“‘My poor Chamoureau, how is it that, in becoming rich, you have become a bigger fool than you were? I assure you that wealth doesn’t require a man to be insolent; I know that it often makes them so, but there’s no obligation about it.’

“Chamoureau stood there like an utter idiot; he mumbled a lot of words that had no sort of connection with one another, and ended by saying that it was proper for him to adopt a different demeanor, as he was going to be married.”

“Aha! he is going to be married! and to whom?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Some wealthy retired groceress?”

“No, no! he would do much better to marry a groceress. The drivelling idiot! he is going to marry the lovely brunette, Madame Sainte-Suzanne.”

“Thélénie! is it possible?”

“It’s a fact; he told me under the seal of secrecy; he tells everybody—under the same seal.”

“But it was your duty to impress it upon him that he is doing an insane thing, that this marriage will make him very unhappy, that all the men with any good looks in Paris have known Madame Sainte-Suzanne intimately.”

“I was careful to do nothing of the kind; he would have believed that I said it from envy, from spite; and then, d’ye see, I am not sorry to see him do this crazy thing. If Chamoureau were a good fellow, if he had shown himself in prosperity a man of heart, devoted to his friends, then I would have done my utmost to prevent him from tying himself to that lady. But as he did nothing of the kind, as he is nothing better than an ass, a selfish fool overflowing with vanity, who pretended to mourn for his wife in order to make himself interesting, why, let him roll in the muck, let him swallow with his eyes closed all the lies his lovely Thélénie tells him; let him roll there till he falls into a ditch, into which that lady will not fail to push him! it will be a good thing! There’s no harm done if fools are punished from time to time. I never pity the discomfiture of those people who are insolent in prosperity.—Now I am ready; let us go; that is to say, let us go to the Café Anglais to breakfast—just a cutlet; I shall save myself for the matelote—and then to the station.”

The two friends breakfasted together. But Edmond gave Freluchon hardly time to eat; he said to him every minute:

“Let us go; you have eaten enough; if you eat any more, you won’t do honor to the matelote.”

“I assure you that I shall; the journey, you know, and the country air; and then we shall not dine as soon as we arrive.—Garçon! a cup of chocolate.”

“Great heaven! he is going to drink chocolate too! Why, it will make you ill!”

“On the contrary, it will do me good; it’s a habit which I learned from a little Spanish dancer, who danced the yota, bolera, et cetera, at the Folies-Nouvelles, and who quivered so when she looked at her feet. Ah! my dear fellow, such a quivering!”

“That is no reason for drinking chocolate! I have known English women, but I don’t eat plum-pudding!”

“Well! you make a mistake; you should always adopt the tastes of your lady friends; then you end by eating everything.”

At last Edmond succeeded in dragging Freluchon from the café; but the little man, as a precautionary measure, put in his pocket the rolls that he had not had time to eat. They arrived at the station, only to find that they had three-quarters of an hour to wait for the train.

“You see, I should have had plenty of time to soak my rolls in my chocolate!” cried Freluchon as they paced the floor of the waiting room. “Oh! these lovers! how unpleasant they are at table!—I say! they sell cake here; I am going to fill my pockets in case of accidents.—If this fellow Edmond were only amiable! I do whatever he wants, I follow him to a place where I don’t know a cat, and he doesn’t say a word, he looks as dismal as a night cap! Are you going to be like this all the way to Chelles?”

“Oh! Freluchon, if you knew what I feel when I think that I am going to see that fascinating girl again! It seems to me that when I am with her, I shall not dare to say a word.”

“Well! that will be lovely! You will give them a very pretty idea of your intelligence!”

“A man ceases to have any when he is in love!”

“In that case, I have an excellent reason for never falling in love. Fichtre! I don’t propose to lose my intelligence; it’s a thing that can’t be replaced.”

“Do you think she’ll be glad to see me?”

“What a question! It’s as if you should ask me if I know how many times I blew my nose yesterday.”

“If they should receive me coldly—with that frigid courtesy that means: ‘Monsieur, you are welcome this once—it’s all right—but you will gratify us by not coming again’——”

“Why, you would say to them: ‘Mesdames, you will be the losers; I improve rapidly on acquaintance’——”

“Ah! there’s the bell, the signal for the train; let’s hurry.”

“Hurry! what an extraordinary man! What’s the use of hurrying? there’s always room in the cars; as the saying goes: ‘When there’s no more room, there is still some.’ ”

The two friends took their seats, and the train started. Freluchon scrutinized their travelling companions. Two elderly women, a child, and three men, two of whom instantly began to smoke, in the teeth of the regulations, deeming it perfectly natural to gratify a brutish taste at the risk of setting the carriage on fire and roasting a considerable number of travellers. What vile cads such people are!

Freluchon admired the landscape, as much as one can admire it from a railway train. The country was very pretty through Raincy; but Edmond looked at nothing, saw nothing. Whenever the train stopped, he wanted to alight, thinking that they had arrived; Freluchon was obliged to hold him back by the coat, saying:

“We are not at Chelles; do you mean to go the rest of the way on foot?”

At last they reached the Chelles station. The two friends alighted and Edmond asked a peasant woman:

“Which way to Chelles, if you please?”

“To your left, up the hill.”

“And the matelote country, madame?” asked Freluchon.

“To your right, monsieur; follow the main road, take the first road to the left, cross the bridge, and you’re in Gournay.”

“Infinitely obliged. I will go in that direction, Edmond, while you go to Chelles; you will find me at the best restaurant, cabaret or grill-room in Gournay. It is now one o’clock; I trust that I shall see you again by four; three hours to pay your respects is a very generous allowance. I am going to try to find a shepherdess of the Florian type; if it come to the worst I will be content with a bather of the Courbet type.—Bah! he isn’t listening; he’s already on his way; he continues to be amiable!”

Agathe was at the piano, singing and accompanying herself. Honorine, seated by the window, was working at embroidery, glancing frequently in the direction of the Tower.

Several days had passed since the adventure of the cow; they had seen neither Paul nor his dog, and Madame Dalmont had just observed:

“I am sure that that gentleman was sorely annoyed to be obliged to walk home with us; that was why he ran away without listening, I think, to my invitation to him to rest a moment.”

“Why, yes, he did listen, because he answered: ‘I must continue my walk.’—Ah! the dog is more agreeable than his master!”

And the two friends had relapsed into silence.

Poucette entered the salon.

“Mesdames, here’s a fine young man who wants to know if he can have the honor of seeing you.”

“A young man—did he give his name?”

“Monsieur Edmond Didier.”

“Edmond Didier! Oh! my dear friend, that’s the young man, who—the young man, who—you know—who took so much trouble to help you to buy this house.”

“Yes, yes; I remember very well; but that’s no reason why you should blush so. Why, you are all confused. Come, come, Agathe, control yourself.—Show the gentleman in, Poucette.”

“Oh! my dear love, does my hair look nice? I didn’t have time to braid it this morning.”

“You look very sweet. But do sit still, don’t jump about on your chair like that; this young man will think that you have nervous spasms.”

“O Honorine! how unkind you are!”

Edmond’s appearance put an end to this conversation. He entered the room very modestly, apologizing for his presumption. One is generally well received when one displays some fear of coming inopportunely. The young man’s courteous, gentlemanly demeanor and his reserved manners prepossessed Honorine in his favor. As for Agathe, the flush that overspread her cheeks, her confusion, her eyes, which she was afraid to turn upon the new arrival, demonstrated clearly enough that his presence caused her the most intense emotion; and her voice was almost inaudible when she replied to Edmond’s greeting and inquiry for her health.

But when the first awkward moment had passed, the young man, reassured by the cordial welcome he had received, became amiable and sprightly, recovered his spirits, and his conversation soon afforded much amusement to the ladies, to whom he gave all the news of Paris. Then he spoke enthusiastically of the house, the situation, the outlook.

“We also have a very pretty garden,” murmured Agathe.

“If I were not afraid of being presumptuous, I would ask to see it.”

“With pleasure, monsieur; landed proprietors, you know, are always flattered to exhibit their property; and it should be more excusable in us than in others, we have been landed proprietors such a short time!”

They walked in the garden, which the young man found charming, as he did the whole house. Agathe began to be less embarrassed, she recovered her gayety, laughed at the slightest provocation, and, when she did so, disclosed such fresh red lips and such pretty teeth that it would have been a pity for her not to laugh, in very truth.

“It is very good of you, monsieur,” said Honorine, “to remember your promise and to think of coming to see us. But perhaps you know someone at Chelles?”

“No, madame, absolutely no one. The desire to present my respects to you was quite sufficient to bring me here; furthermore, I was anxious to know if you were satisfied with your purchase.”

“Yes, monsieur, very well satisfied. Agathe and I like this neighborhood very much.”

“Have you plenty of society?”

“We might have, if we wanted it; but we do not seek it; society is often a nuisance in the country. We have a call now and then from the local doctor, an old man and rather pleasant. I think that we shall go no farther; what we have seen has given us no desire to join in the festivities of our neighbors, has it, Agathe?”

“Oh! no, indeed! tiresome eccentricities—perfectly intolerable with their chatter, in which there is never an interesting word. It’s so amusing to listen to that! What a difference when one is with people who—whom we like! then the time passes so quickly!”

“Yes, indeed; too quickly, in fact; for I fear that I presume too far, that I incommode you by prolonging my call.”

“Oh! no, monsieur, our time is entirely at our disposal; and if there is no necessity for your hurrying back to Paris——”

“Not in the least, madame; I too am master of my time—too much so, indeed.”

“Have you no business?”

“Pardon me, I trade on the Bourse. I am thinking seriously about earning money.”

During this dialogue between Edmond and Honorine, Agathe frequently glanced at her friend, and her eyes seemed to say:

“Well! do you propose to let this young man go away like this? Aren’t you going to invite him to dine with us? He was so courteous to us in Paris; he certainly deserves to have us pay him that compliment.”

Honorine understood Agathe’s pantomime perfectly, but she was amused by her impatience. However, when Edmond again spoke of going, she said:

“If you are in no hurry to return to Paris, monsieur, stay and dine with us; you will have a very simple dinner, but we shall enjoy your company longer.”

“Really, madame,” stammered Edmond, bowing in acknowledgment of the invitation, “your invitation causes me so much pleasure—it is very bold of me to accept—and yet I haven’t courage enough to refuse.”

“Oh! then you will stay!” cried Agathe, jumping for joy; then, ashamed of having allowed the pleasure she felt to appear, she ran away, saying:

“I am going to see if the hens have laid any eggs.”

Edmond was on the point of calling after her: “Oh! mademoiselle, don’t make them lay for me!” for no one is so likely as a bright man to say foolish things, when he is in love. However, he caught himself in time, and Honorine said to him:

“You will permit us to forego ceremony, won’t you?”

“It is a sign of friendship, madame.”

“Very well; I will leave you and finish my toilet. Meanwhile, will you walk, or will you go back to the salon? You are musical, I believe; you can play on the piano; in short, make yourself quite at home.”

“Thanks, madame, thanks a thousand times.”

Honorine retired to the house; Edmond, left alone in the garden, strolled about there for some time, then entered the summer-house and sat down.

“She comes here to work,” he thought; “it is here she sits—she said so just now. Sweet girl! she blushes when I glance at her; and then she lowers her eyes; she seems moved, perturbed. Oh! if she might love me!”

And the young lover, absorbed by his thoughts, leaned against the window and looked out into the country. But he looked without seeing, his mind was busy with Agathe alone.

Suddenly he remembered Freluchon, whom he had almost forced to take the trip with him; who must be waiting for him now, to eat matelote, and who would be furious if he did not join him.

“Faith! I can’t help it,” thought Edmond; “he can be angry, if he chooses, but I can’t decline the invitation of these ladies, and deprive myself of the happiness of passing the day with the girl I adore. No, indeed! and Freluchon, in my place, would do the same. Besides, between friends there ought to be no formality.”

Agathe did not appear. Hoping to find her in the salon, Edmond went there; but the ladies had not finished dressing. The young man took his seat at the piano, turned over the leaves of several songs, then yielded to the temptation to sing. Edmond sang very well; his voice was sweet and well modulated, and he had in addition taste and expression, which constitute the greatest charm of every person who sings; moreover, he accentuated the words perfectly; when he sang you did not lose a syllable; and it is so uninteresting to listen and not understand!

The lovely song called the Val d’Andore was on the piano. Whether it was that the thought that he was at Agathe’s piano, or his pleasure in knowing that he was near her, had augmented his powers, certain it is that the young man had never sung so well, that his voice had never been so sweet and pure. And the two friends, who, after completing their toilet, had returned to the salon, stood at the door to listen, and did not move a muscle for fear of losing a word.

But Agathe flushed and turned pale alternately as she listened to that melodious voice, which went to her very heart.

“Oh! how beautifully he sings!” she whispered; “oh! my dear! what a voice!”

“Hush!”

Agathe was silent; but a moment later two great tears rolled down her cheeks. Honorine saw them and touched the girl’s arm.

“Upon my word!” she whispered, “you are crying now. What does this mean?”

“I don’t know, my dear friend! I don’t know what the matter is; but I am very happy!”

“Will you be kind enough to wipe your eyes and not show how susceptible you are to music. Really, I am almost sorry that we invited this young man to dinner.”

“Oh! it’s all over, my dear; it’s all over; it won’t happen again.”

Edmond having ceased to sing, the two young women entered the salon.

“You sing very well, monsieur,” said Honorine; while Agathe, still all a-quiver from the effect that Edmond’s voice had produced upon her, stood apart and dared not trust herself to speak.

“What, mesdames, were you listening to me? If I had known that, I should not have dared to sing.”

“You would have been very foolish, and we hope, on the contrary, that you will continue, although you know that we are here.”

“If it will give you any pleasure, madame, I will do whatever you command. But may I not hear you and mademoiselle, also?”

“Oh, yes! monsieur, we will both sing; and as I have not enough talent to require urging, I will begin.”

Honorine seated herself at the piano. She had not much voice, but she put so much expression into the words she sang that one never tired of hearing her.

Next it was Agathe’s turn; she faltered, forgot words and air, confused one song with another, and sang very badly because she longed to sing better than usual.

“Do not judge her by this hearing,” said Honorine; “really, she is not in voice to-day.”

“I am hoarse!” murmured Agathe with a pout, as she left the piano.

Edmond sang again, and his sympathetic voice delighted the two friends so much that they listened too intently to hear Poucette, who stood in the doorway shouting that dinner was served. However, the young peasant’s loud voice succeeded at last in making itself heard. They left the piano and went down into the garden, where the table was laid under an arbor. To dine in the open air is one of the great joys of life in the country; and to those sybarites who fear that they may not have everything necessary to their comfort, who make a wry face if a leaf falls on their plate, if a maybug buzzes about their ears, I would say:

You do not know that the sense of well-being which one feels on breathing the pure country air always sharpens the appetite.

The dinner passed off very merrily.

Edmond was agreeable, Honorine witty, and Agathe happy. Everybody was content.

From time to time Edmond exclaimed:

“How lovely it is to live in the country! I think I must hire a little room in the neighborhood, for the summer; it would do me a great deal of good.”

“Is your health poor, monsieur?” asked Honorine in a slightly sarcastic tone, for the young man had done ample justice to the dinner.

“I am not ill as yet, madame; but my lungs are weak, very weak.”

“Why, that is strange; one would not think it, to hear you sing.”

“I assure you that a doctor, a friend of mine, tells me that the country air would do me no end of good.”

“Indeed, I believe that it can never injure anyone.”

“If I could find a small furnished apartment in this vicinity—a bachelor requires so little!”

“Oh! you can find that!” exclaimed Agathe; “it seems to me I have seen signs on the main street. It would be very nice to have you for a neighbor!”

“It is I, mademoiselle, whom it would make very happy.”

Honorine nudged her young friend with her knee, to urge her to be less expansive; whereupon Agathe made a funny little face and held her peace until some new outburst escaped her.

The girl was not as yet accustomed to society, and she said frankly just what she thought; which people are very careful not to do in society—and with good reason.

The music had delayed the dinner, and they were still talking around the table in the garden long after it had grown dark. Suddenly Poucette ran toward them with a terrified air, and said to the young man:

“Monsieur, your name’s Edmond Didier, isn’t it?”

“Yes—why?”

“Because there’s a young gentleman running all about the neighborhood, shouting at the top of his lungs:

“‘Edmond Didier, where are you? if you are not killed or eaten, answer me! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you! I am waiting for you!’ ”

“What does this mean?” demanded Honorine, while Edmond hung his head and stammered in dire confusion:

“Mon Dieu, mesdames, I beg your pardon most humbly; I remember now that I came here with a friend of mine.”

“And you have not thought of him since morning! Oh! the poor fellow!”

“Do not pity him, madame; I arranged to meet him at Gournay, to eat a matelote; but it gave me so much pleasure to remain with you——”

“That you left your friend to his own devices.”

“He will have eaten his matelote without me—that’s all.”

“But you see that he is anxious about you, since he is rushing about the country calling you.—Try to overtake this gentleman, Poucette, and bring him back with you; tell him that the person he is looking for is here.”

“Very well, madame. I’ll find him; he’s yelling loud enough, so that you can hear him a long way.”

“Really, madame, I abuse your good nature. To compel you to receive my friend——”

“Is he not presentable?”

“I beg pardon; he’s a very good fellow,—a little free-and-easy,—I mean, a little eccentric; he is very well circumstanced, he has a handsome fortune——”

“That is a matter of indifference to us; but it seems that he must be very fond of you, to look for you so energetically.”

“Oh! that’s because he doesn’t want to go back alone.”

At that moment Poucette returned with Freluchon, who, as soon as he caught sight of Edmond, exclaimed:

“Ah! so this is the way you treat your friends; and it was to make me pass a day like Robinson Crusoe, in a horrible place where one doesn’t see a living being, that you brought me into the country with you!”

“Freluchon!—don’t you see these ladies?”

“Oh! I beg pardon, mesdames; but really that is no way to act; I leave it to these ladies—let them say whether I did wrong to cry aloud.—Imagine, mesdames, that this gentleman, who dares to call me his friend, brought me here almost by force this morning, saying: ‘We will have a delightful day; I am going to call on some very charming ladies who live at Chelles, but I shall not stay long; go to Gournay and wait for me; order a matelote and I’ll be with you at four o’clock.—Very good; I turn to the right when he turns to the left. I find myself in a country which is not unpleasant to look at, perhaps, but where you don’t meet a living soul—not a peasant—not an ass—and ordinarily there are asses everywhere!—Oh! by the way, I did meet some sheep, but no shepherd—I saw only the dog—probably he acts as shepherd too. After walking about for three mortal hours in this desert, somewhat anxious concerning my plight and saying to myself from time to time: ‘Can it be that a second Deluge has swept this region?’ I returned to the modest cabaret where I had ordered a matelote, some fried fish, and even a rabbit sauté, for I should not believe that I was dining in the country unless I ate rabbit.

“The dinner was ready, but monsieur had not arrived. I waited one, two, three-quarters of an hour, until the cabaretier informed me that the dinner was suffering from the delay. At that, I took my place at the table, thinking that he would come in a moment. I swallowed several pieces of eel—the matelote was good, I must admit that—but he didn’t come. I said to myself: ‘What’s the use of leaving the eel?’—I ate eleven slices of it, mesdames, with fried fish and rabbit in proportion; if I have indigestion, it will be his fault! Eleven slices! and the eel was superb.

“After dinner I left Gournay and set out in quest of my gentleman; for I was really uneasy. I thought that something must have happened to him, that he had fallen into a hole—there are holes everywhere. I reached this hamlet, and, not knowing where you lived, mesdames, I called my friend—in a heartrending voice; no one answered. Faith! then I rang the bell at rather a fine house, with pilasters topped by great balls tapering to a point. I don’t know what style of architecture that is, but I suspect that it’s the Boulette style. I rang rather violently, no doubt; and as I continued to call this blackguard—I beg pardon, mesdames, I mean this—scamp—it seems that I alarmed the occupants of the house, and four of them came in a body to open the door; there was one gentleman who was armed, and I saw another dancing in the courtyard. A tall woman, with the voice of a sapper and miner, said to me:

“‘What do you want, monsieur, and why are you making all this uproar at my door?’

“Thereupon I assumed an affable manner and replied in honeyed tones:

“‘Do you happen to have here my friend Edmond Didier, with whom I would like to return to Paris?’

“At that, the big man who was armed observed that I was a joker, that it was probably a prearranged scene, and the tall woman said:

“‘I don’t like jokes of this kind; I call it downright impertinent.’

“And they immediately shut the door in my face, just as the little man who was dancing posed as Zéphir.”

“Monsieur must have called at Madame Droguet’s!” said Agathe, laughingly.

“Ah! that lady’s name is Droguet, is it? it is well suited to her.—Appalled by my inhospitable reception, I walked on through the streets, shouting exactly like a crier announcing the loss of some object or the approach of the day when taxes must be paid; in villages they never fail to make that announcement, in order to stimulate the zeal of the taxpayers. But your servant came to my rescue, madame, and guided me here.”

“And now, Freluchon, I will reply to your reproaches in very few words. I certainly intended to join you, but these ladies had the extreme kindness to invite me to dine with them. Tell me now, if you had been in my place, would you not have done exactly as I did, and accepted?”

“It’s very likely; but I would have sent a messenger to Gournay to set my friend’s mind at rest.”

“You? you never would have thought of such a thing! And besides, there are no messengers in a village.”

“You won’t have so much difficulty in finding your friend when he has lodgings here,” said Agathe.

“Ah! do you propose to hire a house here?”

“No, not a house, but a small apartment.”

“Monsieur’s lungs are delicate,” said Honorine, “and he thinks that the country air will do him good.”

“Your lungs delicate! Well! that is a good one!”

And Freluchon threw himself back in his chair, laughing uproariously, oblivious to the glances Edmond bestowed upon him.

Honorine put an end to the scene by saying to the newcomer:

“Will monsieur have something to eat?”

“Infinitely obliged, madame; but when one has eaten eleven slices of eel, one needs nothing but exercise.—But the trains—what time does the last train leave for Paris?”

“At ten o’clock.”

“In that case, it will be well for us to start.”

Edmond realized that his friend was right; he took leave of the ladies, thanking them for their hospitable welcome; while Freluchon eyed Poucette, whose robust figure aroused his admiration.

Then the two young men went to the station.