out the neighbourhood. The
building of the central markets--as yet incomplete--provided both
children with endless opportunities for amusement. They made their way
into the midst of the work-yards through some gap or other between
the planks; they descended into the foundations, and climbed up to the
cast-iron pillars. Every nook, every piece of the framework witnessed
their games and quarrels; the pavilions grew up under the touch of their
little hands. From all this arose the affection which they felt for
the great markets, and which the latter seemed to return. They were on
familiar terms with that gigantic pile, old friends as they were, who
had seen each pin and bolt put into place. They felt no fear of the huge
monster; but slapped it with their childish hands, treated it like
a good friend, a chum whose presence brought no constraint. And the
markets seemed to smile at these two light-hearted children, whose love
was the song, the idyll of their immensity.

Cadine alone now slept at Mother Chantemesse's. The old woman had packed
Marjolin off to a neighbour's. This made the two children very unhappy.
Still, they contrived to spend much of their time together. In the
daytime they would hide themselves away in the warehouses of the Rue au
Lard, behind piles of apples and cases of oranges; and in the evening
they would dive into the cellars beneath the poultry market, and secret
themselves among the huge hampers of feathers which stood near the
blocks where the poultry was killed. They were quite alone there, amidst
the strong smell of the poultry, and with never a sound but the sudden
crowing of some rooster to break upon their babble and their
laughter. The feathers amidst which they found themselves were of
all sorts--turkey's feathers, long and black; goose quills, white and
flexible; the downy plumage of ducks, soft like cotton wool; and the
ruddy and mottled feathers of fowls, which at the faintest breath flew
up in a cloud like a swarm of flies buzzing in the sun. And then in
wintertime there was the purple plumage of the pheasants, the ashen
grey of the larks, the splotched silk of the partridges, quails, and
thrushes. And all these feathers freshly plucked were still warm and
odoriferous, seemingly endowed with life. The spot was as cosy as a
nest; at times a quiver as of flapping wings sped by, and Marjolin and
Cadine, nestling amidst all the plumage, often imagined that they were
being carried aloft by one