Inside the market, as I have said, matters move with all imaginable rapidity and gravity. The women receive the grain, weigh it, and the sale goes on so briskly that all is over before the end of an hour. Outside, in the Place, are a crowd of carts, people idling, old women standing about in their stuff gowns and snowy caps; the country people meet their relations; there is a din of good-humoured chatter about the price of corn, the value of samples, the health of the bishop, the ambition of Madame the Prefet's wife, the chance of gaining a few _sous_,--all kinds of matters, great and small, but rarely any more serious disturbance. Monsieur Deshoulieres was surprised one morning as he passed through the Place to find himself the centre of a hubbub. Quite a crowd had gathered together at the entrance to the market--men and women with grave excited faces, a torrent of shrill voices. People looked out of their windows; the horses, standing unheeded in the carts, tossed their great manes, and stamped and shook themselves to get rid of the tormenting flies. The time when business usually concluded was past; it was evident that something still hindered it, something unusual. "What is the matter?" asked M. Deshoulieres, elbowing his way through a throng of women. So many voices answered him that he lifted his low hat, and said, with an appealing gesture, "One at a time, if you please, mesdames." "Such an affair has never before happened in our town." "It is a scandal!" "One will hear next that one sells short measure one's self!" "Could monsieur conceive the audacity of that unhappy boy!" "Madame Mathurine will assuredly apply to Monsieur le Maire."