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“Trois sous, Madame.”

“Non, Madame, deux sous.”

And: “Regardez ces raisins.”

“Voyez, voyez, les melons.”

And always: “Cinq sous, Madame.”

“Non, Madame, trois sous.... Sous, sous, sous.”

Slowly we progress, meet the patronne of our hotel, the postman, the garde champêtre, the barber and, all of a sudden, a bevy of fair Americans, daintily dressed, who inhabit a “finishing” school near by. In the village it is hinted that they are heiresses, all of them. Certainly their clothes are rich, but they carry paper bags of grapes, and eat the grapes, and dawdle... just like Mesdemoiselles Jeanne and Marie, village girls who “do washing” on the river bank every other day of the week. Also, they utter little cries:

“Isn’t that old woman the funniest thing that’s ever happened!”

And: “My! Isn’t it all too quaint!”

Here a foreigner sketches. Farther on, by the side of the church, a painter has established his easel; next him, stands a group of village women who have already done their shopping and bear their spoil. And they compare their purchases, gesticulating over this cauliflower, that salad; and soon we hear much about a certain Madame Morin who has gone home furious because Madame Petilleau carried off an amazing melon she had her eye on... just by a minute. But Madame Morin is always like that; Madame Morin would flush, lose her temper, over a single bean.