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In the far distance, the bear is evidently dancing, for we faintly hear the tambourine. But his audience must now be small: before us, up the Grande Rue, moves a slow procession of men and women with baskets, sometimes two baskets to each person.

Still, the first market-woman does not appear to have provided them with their spoil. She alone has done no business, and sits, wizened and bent in half, over her shabby cauliflowers, her poor potatoes. Occasionally she sniffs.

But her sniff develops into a snort, when the cross-eyed, unshaven fellow with the accordion slouches up and, pausing for a moment, winks ... a fearful wink... leers, addresses her impudently and grotesquely with his eternal refrain:

“Tu sais bien que je t’ai-ai-me.”

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A French friend, M. Durand, thus writes to me:

“To-morrow morning at 11.47 my wife, myself, the three children and our deaf old servant Amélie, all leave for Marie-le-Bois; and to-morrow night, whilst you, mon cher ami, are eating the rosbif and drinking the pale ale of la vieille Angleterre, the Durand family will be dining off radishes, sardines, chicken, and cool salad, in the garden of the Villa des Roses.