What helps much to render these dingy streets, passages, and courts of Figeac so delightfully picturesque is the vegetation which, growing with southern luxuriance in places seemingly least favourable to it, clings to the ancient masonry, or brightens it by the strong contrast of its immediate neighbourhood in some little garden or balustraded terrace.  Wherever there are a few feet of ground some rough poles support a luxuriant vine-trellis, and grapes ripen where one might suppose scarcely a gleam of sunshine could fall.  The vine clambers over everything, and sometimes reaches to the top of a house two stories high.  The old walls of Figeac are likewise tapestried with pellitory and ivy-linaria, with here and there a fern pushing its deep-green frond farther into the shadow, or an orpine sedum lifting its head of purple flowers into the sunshine that changes it to a flame.

There is much in the life of this place that matches perfectly with the surroundings.  Enter by a Gothic doorway, and you will come upon a nail-maker’s forge, and see a dog turning the wheel that keeps the bellows continually blowing.  The wheel is about a foot broad, and stands some three feet high.  The dog jumps into it at a sign from his master, and as the wheel turns the sparks from the forge fall about the animal in showers.  Each dog is expected to work five or six hours; then, when his task is done, he is allowed to amuse himself as he pleases, while a comrade takes his turn at the wheel.  The nail-makers discovered long ago that dog labour was cheaper than boy labour, and not so troublesome.  Nevertheless, these wheels belong to an order of things that has nearly passed away.

The crier or tambourineur, as he is generally called, because he carries a drum, which he beats most lustily to awaken the curiosity of the inhabitants, is making the round of the town with an ox, which is introduced to the public as ‘le boeuf ici present.’  The crier’s business is to announce to all whom it may concern that the animal is to be killed this very evening, and that its flesh will be sold to-morrow at 1 franc 25 centimes the kilo.  It will all go at a uniform price, for this is the local custom.  Those who want the aloyau, or sirloin, only have to be quick.  The ox, notwithstanding that he has a rope tied round his nose and horns, and is led by the butcher, evidently thinks it a great distinction to be tambourine; his expression indicating that this is the proudest day of his life.  Every time the drum begins to rattle he flourishes his tail, and when each little ceremony is over he moves on to a fresh place with a jaunty air, as if he were aware that all this drumming and fuss were especially intended for his entertainment.  No condemned wretch ever made his last appearance in public with a better grace.

Another day I see this crier going round the town accompanied by a boy every available part of whose person is decked with ribbons, and all kinds of things ordinarily sold by drapers and haberdashers.  Over each shoulder is slung a pair of women’s boots.  The boy is a walking advertisement of an exceptional sale, which a tradesman announces with the help of the crier and his drum.