wheels and levers and beams espied in the crimson glow of the fires blazing beneath its boilers.  At each consecutive hour of the day the changing play of the light—­from the bluish haze of early morning and the black shadows of noon to the flaring of the sinking sun and the paling of its fires in the ashy grey of the twilight—­revealed the markets under a new aspect; but on the flaming evenings, when the foul smells arose and forced their way across the broad yellow beams like hot puffs of steam, Florent again experienced discomfort, and his dream changed, and he imagined himself in some gigantic knacker’s boiling-house where the fat of a whole people was being melted down.

The coarseness of the market people, whose words and gestures seemed to be infected with the evil smell of the place, also made him suffer.  He was very tolerant, and showed no mock modesty; still, these impudent women often embarrassed him.  Madame Francois, whom he had again met, was the only one with whom he felt at ease.  She showed such pleasure on learning he had found a berth and was quite comfortable and out of worry, as she put it, that he was quite touched.  The laughter of Lisa, the handsome Norman, and the others disquieted him; but of Madame Francois he would willingly have made a confidante.  She never laughed mockingly at him; when she did laugh, it was like a woman rejoicing at another’s happiness.  She was a brave, plucky creature, too; hers was a hard business in winter, during the frosts, and the rainy weather was still more trying.  On some mornings Florent saw her arrive in a pouring deluge which had been slowly, coldly falling ever since the previous night.  Between Nanterre and Paris the wheels of her cart had sunk up to the axles in mud, and Balthazar was caked with mire to his belly.  His mistress would pity him and sympathise with him as she wiped him down with some old aprons.

“The poor creatures are very sensitive,” said she; “a mere nothing gives them a cold.  Ah, my poor old Balthazar!  I really thought that we had tumbled into the Seine as we crossed the Neuilly bridge, the rain came down in such a deluge!”

While Balthazar was housed in the inn stable his mistress remained in the pouring rain to sell her vegetables.  The footway was transformed into a lake of liquid mud.  The cabbages, carrots, and turnips were pelted by the grey water, quite drowned by the muddy torrent that rushed along the pavement.  There was no longer any of that glorious greenery so apparent on bright mornings.  The market gardeners, cowering in their heavy cloaks beneath the downpour, swore at the municipality which, after due inquiry, had declared that rain was in no way injurious to vegetables, and that there was accordingly no necessity to erect any shelters.