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As he spoke, he had bent over to train a branch of rhododendron, and he continued: "Hold, I know now. He very often passes along the boulevard, and goes in the direction of the Glaciere, Rue Croulebarbe. The meadow of the Lark. Go there. It is not hard to meet him." When M. Mabeuf straightened himself up, there was no longer any one there; the girl had disappeared. He was decidedly terrified.
And he went out every day. He lived in the Lark's meadow more than in Courfeyrac's lodgings. That was his real address: Boulevard de la Sante, at the seventh tree from the Rue Croulebarbe. That morning he had quitted the seventh tree and had seated himself on the parapet of the River des Gobelins. A cheerful sunlight penetrated the freshly unfolded and luminous leaves. He was dreaming of "Her."
Take a few steps, and you come upon that fatal Rue Croulebarbe, where Ulbach stabbed the goat-girl of Ivry to the sound of thunder, as in the melodramas.
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