n went off, she continued: "Upon my word, I believe some
people think that things grow of their own accord! Let him go and find
carrots at a sou the bunch elsewhere, tipsy scoundrel that he is! He'll
come back again presently, you'll see."

These last remarks were addressed to Florent. And, seating herself by
his side, Madame Francois resumed: "If you've been a long time away from
Paris, you perhaps don't know the new markets. They haven't been built
for more than five years at the most. That pavilion you see there beside
us is the flower and fruit market. The fish and poultry markets are
farther away, and over there behind us come the vegetables and the
butter and cheese. There are six pavilions on this side, and on the
other side, across the road, there are four more, with the meat and
the tripe stalls. It's an enormous place, but it's horribly cold in the
winter. They talk about pulling down the houses near the corn market to
make room for two more pavilions. But perhaps you know all this?"

"No, indeed," replied Florent; "I've been abroad. And what's the name of
that big street in front of us?"

"Oh, that's a new street. It's called the Rue du Pont Neuf. It
leads from the Seine through here to the Rue Montmartre and the Rue
Montorgueil. You would soon have recognized where you were if it had
been daylight."

Madame Francois paused and rose, for she saw a woman heading down to
examine her turnips. "Ah, is that you, Mother Chantemesse?" she said in
a friendly way.

Florent meanwhile glanced towards the Rue Montorgueil. It was there
that a body of police officers had arrested him on the night of December
4.[*] He had been walking along the Boulevard Montmartre at about two
o'clock, quietly making his way through the crowd, and smiling at the
number of soldiers that the Elysee had sent into the streets to awe the
people, when the military suddenly began making a clean sweep of the
thoroughfare, shooting folks down at close range during a quarter of an
hour. Jostled and knocked to the ground, Florent fell at the corner
of the Rue Vivienne and knew nothing further of what happened, for the
panic-stricken crowd, in their wild terror of being shot, trampled over
his body. Presently, hearing everything quiet, he made an attempt to
rise; but across him there lay a young woman in a pink bonnet, whose
shawl had slipped aside, allowing her chemisette, pleated in little
tucks, to be seen. Two bullets had pierced the upper pa