And down there, in the dim light from the lamps, the gaunt, white-haired woman darns away at the faded velvet curtain. Down there, from its throne of draperies, the black cat watches the widow with lurid yellow eyes. Down there in vague disorder—in an atmosphere of shadows and ambiguities, of moth, cobweb and mist—down there, lie bright things and sombre things, tarnished things and threadbare things, frail things, fast-fading things; things and things, and all of them old, discarded, forgotten things. III IN A MARKET-PLACE The market!... We holiday-keepers in Moret-sur-Loing have been looking forward to it, imagining it, scanning the spot where it is held, recalling other French market-places, ever since we first bowed before the amiable _patron_ and _patronne_ of our hotel. Our immediate inquiry was when is the market. “Tell us,” we cried, “when we, like the villagers, may go forth in our newest clothes, in high spirits, as though to some fine ceremony, to view fruits and vegetables, gigots and _rôtis_ if we like, stalls of chiffons and trinkets, patent medicines, soaps, scents and——” “A week hence, mon pauvre Monsieur,” interrupted the _patronne_. “The market takes place on Tuesdays only: as it is Tuesday night, you have just missed it.” “Then,” we replied, “the week will be empty, sombre; the week will be a year, a century; but for you, Madame, and your admirable hotel, the week would be intolerable.” And the _patronne_ bowed and smiled; we bowed and smiled, “comme dans le monde,” in fact, “en mondains.” Never was there sweeter smiling, better bowing, in Moret....