her chatter.

With a jerk of her finger La Normande had removed the fish's entrails
and tossed them into a pail. Then she slipped a corner of her apron
under its gills to wipe away a few grains of sand. "There, my dear," she
said, putting the fish into the servant's basket, "you'll come back to
thank me."

Certainly the servant did come back a quarter of an hour afterwards,
but it was with a flushed, red face. She had been crying, and her little
body was trembling all over with anger. Tossing the brill on to the
marble slab, she pointed to a broad gash in its belly that reached the
bone. Then a flood of broken words burst from her throat, which was
still contracted by sobbing: "Madame Taboureau won't have it. She says
she couldn't put it on her table. She told me, too, that I was an idiot,
and let myself be cheated by anyone. You can see for yourself that the
fish is spoilt. I never thought of turning it round; I quite trusted
you. Give me my ten francs back."

"You should look at what you buy," the handsome Norman calmly observed.

And then, as the servant was just raising her voice again, old Madame
Mehudin got up. "Just you shut up!" she cried. "We're not going to take
back a fish that's been knocking about in other people's houses. How do
we know that you didn't let it fall and damage it yourself?"

"I! I damage it!" The little servant was choking with indignation. "Ah!
you're a couple of thieves!" she cried, sobbing bitterly. "Yes, a couple
of thieves! Madame Taboureau herself told me so!"