words of a versicle, he chanted: "Forty-two! forty-two! The turbot goes
for forty-two francs."

It was the beautiful Norman who had made the last bid. Florent
recognised her as she stood in the line of fish-wives crowding against
the iron rails which surrounded the enclosure. The morning was fresh
and sharp, and there was a row of tippets above the display of big white
aprons, covering the prominent bosoms and stomachs and sturdy shoulders.
With high-set chignon set off with curls, and white and dainty skin,
the beautiful Norman flaunted her lace bow amidst tangled shocks of
hair covered with dirty kerchiefs, red noses eloquent of drink,
sneering mouths, and battered faces suggestive of old pots. And she also
recognised Madame Quenu's cousin, and was so surprised to see him there
that she began gossiping to her neighbours about him.

The uproar of voices had become so great that Monsieur Verlaque
renounced all further attempt to explain matters to Florent. On the
footway close by, men were calling out the larger fish with
prolonged shouts, which sounded as though they came from gigantic
speaking-trumpets; and there was one individual who roared "Mussels!
Mussels!" in such a hoarse, cracked, clamorous voice that the very roofs
of the market shook. Some sacks of mussels were turned upside down,
and their contents poured into hampers, while others were emptied with
shovels. And there was a ceaseless procession of basket-trays containing
skate, soles, mackerel, conger-eels, and salmon, carried backwards and
forwards amidst the ever-increasing cackle and pushing of the fish-women
as they crowded against the iron rails which creaked with their
pressure. The humpbacked crier, now fairly on the job, waved his skinny
arms in the air and protruded his jaws. Presently, seemingly lashed into
a state of frenzy by the flood of figures that spurted from his lips, he