grayness that still covered the other buildings. Florent looked at a
boulangerie
4 on the left-hand side of rue Montorgueil, all full and golden with a fresh batch of bread, and he thought he could smell the fragrance of warm bread. It was 4:30 in the morning.
Meanwhile, Madame François had sold all her produce. When Lacaille reappeared with his bag, only a few carrot bunches were left.
“How about a sou for that?” he asked.
“I knew I'd be seeing you again,” she answered quietly. “Go ahead. Take the rest. There are seventeen bunches.”
“So that makes seventeen sous.”
“No. Thirty-four.”
They settled on twenty-five. Madame François was in a hurry to leave. Once Lacaille had wandered off with the carrots in his bag she said to Florent, “See that, he was watching me. The old bastard drifts around the market. Sometimes he waits till the last second to buy four sous' worth of goods. Oh these Parisians! They'll bicker over a few sous and then empty their pockets drinking at the wine shop.”
When Madame François spoke of Paris, her voice was full of irony and disdain. She talked about it as though it were a distant city so ridiculous and contemptible that she condescended to set foot there only in the dark of night.
“Now I can get out of here,” she said, sitting down next to Florent on a neighbor's vegetable pile.
Florent bowed his head. He had just stolen something. Just as Lacaille had left, Florent had spied a piece of carrot lying on the ground, picked it up, and was grasping it tightly in his right hand. Behind him, celery stalks and parsley bunches gave off a smell that was nauseating him.
“I'm going to get out of here,” Madame François repeated. Thisstranger touched her, and her senses told her that he was suffering, sitting there on the sidewalk motionless. She offered again to help him, but he again refused with an even more biting pride. He even stood up and remained on his feet to prove that he had regained his strength. Then, as Madame François turned away, he stuffed the carrot into his mouth. But despite his terrible longing to sink his teeth into it, he was forced to take it out of his mouth again, because she started examining his face again. She started to question him further with a kindhearted curiosity. Florent simply answered with nods and head shakes. Then, slowly, he began to eat the carrot.
She was finally about to leave when a powerful voice right behind her exclaimed, “Good morning, Madame François!”
The voice came from a skinny young man with big bones and a huge head. His face was bearded, with a delicate nose and sparkling clear eyes. He wore a rusty, beat-up black felt hat and was buttoned up in an enormous overcoat, once a soft chestnut but now discolored with long greenish streaks from the rain. Somewhat bent and shaking with nervous energy that seemed chronic, he stood in a pair of heavy laced shoes, the shortness of his pant legs revealing his blue hose.
“Oh, hello, Monsieur Claude,” she responded cheerfully. “You know, I was expecting you on Monday, and when you didn't show up I took care of your canvas for you, hanging it on a nail in my room.”
“Oh, Madame François, you're too kind. I'll finish that study of mine one of these days. I wasn't able to make it Monday. Does your big plum tree still have all its leaves?”
“Absolutely.”
“I wondered because I wanted it for a corner of my painting. It would be perfect by the side of the chicken coop. I've been thinking about it all week … Ah, what beautiful vegetables this morning! I came down very early this morning, looking for the rays of a beautiful sunrise landing on the cabbages.” He demonstrated with a sweep of his arm that took in the full length of the sidewalk.
Madame François answered, “Well, I'm leaving. Good-bye. See you soon, Monsieur Claude.” As she was leaving she introducedFlorent to the young painter. “This gentleman seems to have come from far away. He's
boulangerie
4 on the left-hand side of rue Montorgueil, all full and golden with a fresh batch of bread, and he thought he could smell the fragrance of warm bread. It was 4:30 in the morning.
Meanwhile, Madame François had sold all her produce. When Lacaille reappeared with his bag, only a few carrot bunches were left.
“How about a sou for that?” he asked.
“I knew I'd be seeing you again,” she answered quietly. “Go ahead. Take the rest. There are seventeen bunches.”
“So that makes seventeen sous.”
“No. Thirty-four.”
They settled on twenty-five. Madame François was in a hurry to leave. Once Lacaille had wandered off with the carrots in his bag she said to Florent, “See that, he was watching me. The old bastard drifts around the market. Sometimes he waits till the last second to buy four sous' worth of goods. Oh these Parisians! They'll bicker over a few sous and then empty their pockets drinking at the wine shop.”
When Madame François spoke of Paris, her voice was full of irony and disdain. She talked about it as though it were a distant city so ridiculous and contemptible that she condescended to set foot there only in the dark of night.
“Now I can get out of here,” she said, sitting down next to Florent on a neighbor's vegetable pile.
Florent bowed his head. He had just stolen something. Just as Lacaille had left, Florent had spied a piece of carrot lying on the ground, picked it up, and was grasping it tightly in his right hand. Behind him, celery stalks and parsley bunches gave off a smell that was nauseating him.
“I'm going to get out of here,” Madame François repeated. Thisstranger touched her, and her senses told her that he was suffering, sitting there on the sidewalk motionless. She offered again to help him, but he again refused with an even more biting pride. He even stood up and remained on his feet to prove that he had regained his strength. Then, as Madame François turned away, he stuffed the carrot into his mouth. But despite his terrible longing to sink his teeth into it, he was forced to take it out of his mouth again, because she started examining his face again. She started to question him further with a kindhearted curiosity. Florent simply answered with nods and head shakes. Then, slowly, he began to eat the carrot.
She was finally about to leave when a powerful voice right behind her exclaimed, “Good morning, Madame François!”
The voice came from a skinny young man with big bones and a huge head. His face was bearded, with a delicate nose and sparkling clear eyes. He wore a rusty, beat-up black felt hat and was buttoned up in an enormous overcoat, once a soft chestnut but now discolored with long greenish streaks from the rain. Somewhat bent and shaking with nervous energy that seemed chronic, he stood in a pair of heavy laced shoes, the shortness of his pant legs revealing his blue hose.
“Oh, hello, Monsieur Claude,” she responded cheerfully. “You know, I was expecting you on Monday, and when you didn't show up I took care of your canvas for you, hanging it on a nail in my room.”
“Oh, Madame François, you're too kind. I'll finish that study of mine one of these days. I wasn't able to make it Monday. Does your big plum tree still have all its leaves?”
“Absolutely.”
“I wondered because I wanted it for a corner of my painting. It would be perfect by the side of the chicken coop. I've been thinking about it all week … Ah, what beautiful vegetables this morning! I came down very early this morning, looking for the rays of a beautiful sunrise landing on the cabbages.” He demonstrated with a sweep of his arm that took in the full length of the sidewalk.
Madame François answered, “Well, I'm leaving. Good-bye. See you soon, Monsieur Claude.” As she was leaving she introducedFlorent to the young painter. “This gentleman seems to have come from far away. He's
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