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!”