At the end of the narrow street—the “Grande Rue,” no less!—is installed the first market-woman, with a vast basket of vegetables. And she, a wizened old thing, wrinkled and bent in half, appears to be reflecting over her poor potatoes, her shabby cauliflowers. Still, she refuses to bargain. She has but one price, and she sniffs when a would-be customer turns over her wares, inspecting them; and sniffs again when she is told that they are “bien médiocres et bien chères.” So she sells nothing: falls into reflection again, quite forgets the would-be customer, who, turning up the next street, faces a double row of market-people established on either kerbstone, and thus comes upon the chiefest commerce. All Moret is present, all Moret is bargaining and buying, and all the market-people are seamed with wrinkles, browned, bent; and all of them wear blouses or camisoles or print dresses, handkerchiefs or peaked caps—old, old people all of them; at all events seemingly old; weather-beaten, of the earth. Each has his or her basket, so that there are two uninterrupted lines of baskets, of little piles of paper, of measuring utensils. Every vegetable is available, every fruit. There is crying, croaking, quarrelling; there is laughter, the chink of sous. Above the din one hears: “Trois sous, Madame.” “Non, Madame, deux sous.” And: “Regardez ces raisins.” “Voyez, voyez, les melons.” And always: “Cinq sous, Madame.” “Non, Madame, trois sous.... Sous, sous, sous.” Slowly we progress, meet the _patronne_ of our hotel, the postman, the _garde champêtre_, the barber and, all of a sudden, a bevy of fair Americans, daintily dressed, who inhabit a “finishing” school near by. In the village it is hinted that they are heiresses, all of them. Certainly their clothes are rich, but they carry paper bags of grapes, and eat the grapes, and dawdle... just like Mesdemoiselles Jeanne and Marie, village girls who “do washing” on the river bank every other day of the week. Also, they utter little cries: “Isn’t that old woman the funniest thing that’s ever happened!” And: “My! Isn’t it all too quaint!” Here a foreigner sketches. Farther on, by the side of the church, a painter has established his easel; next him, stands a group of village women who have already done their shopping and bear their spoil. And they compare their purchases, gesticulating over this cauliflower, that salad; and soon we hear much about a certain Madame Morin who has gone home furious because Madame Petilleau carried off an amazing melon she had her eye on... just by a minute. But Madame Morin is always like that; Madame Morin would flush, lose her temper, over a single bean. Now stalls rise—stalls of ribbons and jewellery, stalls of cheeses, stalls of sheets, curtains, all stuffs. And the stuffs are held up to the sun and considered in the shade, and compared with a complexion and wound round a waist, so that we hear: “Ça vous va bien.” And: “Je trouve que c’est trop clair.”