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.

Those rainy mornings greatly worried Florent, who thought about Madame
Francois. He always managed to slip away and get a word with her. But
he never found her at all low-spirited. She shook herself like a poodle,
saying that she was quite used to such weather, and was not made of