“Madame Mathurine will assuredly apply to Monsieur le Maire.”
Then they all began again. The doctor could not understand it. He saw, however, that there were two parties, each enthusiastic for their own side; and from what he could gather out of the angry waves of talk, he suspected the town and country people were at variance. Old Nannon was passionately declaiming in the centre, alternately scolding her opponents and hugging a white-faced bullet-headed boy in a blouse who seemed the object of attack. A painter would have been pleased with the scene, there was so much colour and animation about it. The houses looked as if each had its history: there were wonderful Gothic arches with great sombre depths, and above them, perhaps, a scarlet or purple flower flaming out of a window; a crowd, with its patches of indigo, olive green, and rich russets, all in harmony with the background; great white horses, carrying their monstrous collars; yellow corn going away to the water-mills, hot sunshine, striped awnings, pigeons flying up and down from the roofs,—while a clear atmosphere brought out all the tints and soft half-tones, so that it made a beautiful glowing picture. A fat, comfortably dressed farmer’s wife had been leaning against the wall of the market, more silent than the rest; she pushed her companions on one side in the midst of the clatter of tongues,—
“Tenez,” she said, decidedly. “I will explain the affair to monsieur.”
“Is that you, Madame Lemaire?” said the doctor, with a little relief. “Now perhaps there is a chance that I may understand. What is hindering the business to-day? Is the market closed?”
“Mesdames are deliberating,” replied Madame Lemaire in a slow, solid voice. “There has been an inconvenient event. The corn was brought in this morning from Gohon’s, as usual, and delivered to Madame Mathurine. When she came to measure the grain, she found, as she says, three of the sacks deficient. She has a theory,” continued Madame Lemaire, ponderously, “that the boy Jean-Marie, who drove the cart, could explain the matter if he chose. There are plenty to take his part, and plenty to take hers. Voilà tout, monsieur!” There had been a slight lull in the din of voices, accorded to the position of the well-to-do farmer’s wife, as she made this explanation. When she stopped it broke out again. Old Nannon had drawn near to listen, dragging the accused after her, and she took up the cudgels immediately.
“Voilà tout, madame remarks, but it shall not be all, I say. If Madame Mathurine supposes she is to take away the character of an innocent angel like this, she shall learn her mistake. Speak for thyself, Jean-Marie.”
The innocent angel only answered by a howl. The bystanders laughed. Monsieur Deshoulières interposed,—
“What have you to do with him, Nannon?” he inquired.
“He is her sister’s son.”
“He works for Monsieur Gohon,” replied a chorus of shrill voices. At this moment the great doors were flung open, and the people poured into the market. It all looked grey, cool, business-like: sacks heaped about, great measures, a few men in blue blouses, and a small knot of women, in white frilled caps, and little crossed shawls, standing together in the midst. M. Deshoulières looked on with a little quiet amusement, wondering how the women would conduct themselves. A commotion in the corn-market was almost unprecedented. Just then he saw a figure standing behind two others in the sunlit doorway. Something in form or attitude was so unlike the rest, that he looked again and recognised Thérèse. She had already noticed him, so that it did not surprise her when he came back to her and began, in his quick abrupt manner,—