—She was no better around Palestine than she should have been, yours!
—What about yours, the little minx! Who knows what she got up to. Only
St. Joseph can answer that.
You'd have thought we were on the docks in Naples. In truth, it only needed the glint of a knife blade, I'm sure, to settle this fine theological point once and for all; that is if the driver hadn't intervened.
—Give us some peace. You and your Madonnas! he said laughingly, trying to make light of the Beaucairian dispute: it's women's stuff, this, men shouldn't get involved.
He cracked his whip, from his high perch, as if to emphasise to his lack of religious conviction and to bring the others into line.
* * * * *
End of discussion. But the baker, having been stopped in full flow, wanted to continue in the same vein, and turned his attention towards the miserable cap, still morosely huddled in its corner, and quietly sneered:
—You there, grinder, what about your wife? What side of the parish border does she stand on?
It was as though it was meant to be a joke; the whole cart-load of them erupted into uproarious laughter … except the grinder himself, who didn't react to the remark. This prompted the baker to turn towards me:
—You don't happen to know his wife do you, monsieur? Just as well; she's a real queer fish; there can't be another one like her in Beaucaire.