On Florent’s left some waggons were discharging fresh loads of cabbages.  He turned his eyes, and away in the distance saw carts yet streaming out of the Rue Turbigo.  The tide was still and ever rising.  He had felt it about his ankles, then on a level with his stomach, and now it was threatening to drown him altogether.  Blinded and submerged, his ears buzzing, his stomach overpowered by all that he had seen, he asked for mercy; and wild grief took possession of him at the thought of dying there of starvation in the very heart of glutted Paris, amidst the effulgent awakening of her markets.  Big hot tears started from his eyes.

Walking on, he had now reached one of the larger alleys.  Two women, one short and old, the other tall and withered, passed him, talking together as they made their way towards the pavilions.

“So you’ve come to do your marketing, Mademoiselle Saget?” said the tall withered woman.

“Well, yes, Madame Lecoeur, if you can give it such a name as marketing.  I’m a lone woman, you know, and live on next to nothing.  I should have liked a small cauliflower, but everything is so dear.  How is butter selling to-day?”

“At thirty-four sous.  I have some which is first rate.  Will you come and look at it?”

“Well, I don’t know if I shall want any to-day; I’ve still a little lard left.”

Making a supreme effort, Florent followed these two women.  He recollected having heard Claude name the old one—­Mademoiselle Saget—­when they were in the Rue Pirouette; and he made up his mind to question her when she should have parted from her tall withered acquaintance.

“And how’s your niece?” Mademoiselle Saget now asked.

“Oh, La Sarriette does as she likes,” Madame Lecoeur replied in a bitter tone.  “She’s chosen to set up for herself and her affairs no longer concern me.  When her lovers have beggared her, she needn’t come to me for any bread.”

“And you were so good to her, too!  She ought to do well this year; fruit is yielding big profits.  And your brother-in-law, how is he?”

“Oh, he——­”

Madame Lecoeur bit her lips, and seemed disinclined to say anything more.

“Still the same as ever, I suppose?” continued Mademoiselle Saget.  “He’s a very worthy man.  Still, I once heard it said that he spent his money in such a way that—­”

“But does anyone know how he spends his money?” interrupted Madame Lecoeur, with much asperity.  “He’s a miserly niggard, a scurvy fellow, that’s what I say!  Do you know, mademoiselle, he’d see me die of starvation rather than lend me five francs!  He knows quite well that there’s nothing to be made out of butter this season, any more than out of cheese and eggs; whereas he can sell as much poultry as ever he chooses.  But not once, I assure you, not once has he offered to help me.  I am too proud, as you know, to accept any assistance from him; still it would have pleased me to have had it offered.”