Quantities of fish of all kinds had arrived—­some being sold a la criee, but it was impossible to understand the prices or the names of the fish—­at least for us.  The buying public seemed to know all about it.  The fishwives were very busy standing behind the marble slabs with short thick knives, with which they cut off pieces of the large fish when the customer didn’t want a whole one, and laughing and joking with every one.  Here and there we saw a modern young person in a fancy blouse, her hair dressed and waved, with little combs, but there were not many.  We bought some soles and shrimps.  M. de G. tried to bargain a little for us, but the women were so smiling and so sure we didn’t know anything about it, or what the current price of the fish was, that we had not much success.

The trawlers are gradually taking away all the trade from the old-fashioned fishing-boats.  They go faster, carry more and larger nets, and are, of course, stronger sea-boats.  They are not much more expensive.  They burn coal of an inferior quality and their machinery is of the simplest description.  There is not the loss of life with them that there must be always with the smaller sailing-boats.

Newfoundland is the most dangerous fishing ground, as the men have so much to contend with—­the passing of transatlantic liners and the cold, thick fogs which come up off the banks—­all of them prefer the Iceland fishing.  The cold is greater, but there is much less fog and very few big boats to be met en route.  Few of the Boulogne boats go to Newfoundland.  It is generally the boats from Fecamp and some of the Breton ports that monopolize the fishing off the Banks.  It seems that men often die from the cold and exposure in these waters.  From the old-fashioned sailing-boats they usually send them off—­two by two in a dory (they don’t fish from the big boats); they start early, fish all day; if no fog comes up, they are all right and get back to their boats at dark, but if a sudden fog comes on they often can’t find their boats and remain out all night, half frozen. One night they can stand, but two nights’ cold and exposure are always fatal.  When the fog lifts the little boat is sometimes quite close to the big one, but the men are dead—­frozen.  M. de G. tells us all sorts of terrible experiences that he has heard from his men, and yet they all like the life—­wouldn’t lead any other, and have the greatest contempt for a landsman.

* * * * * There is a fruit stall at the corner of our street, where we stop every morning and buy fruit on our way down to the beach.  We have become most intimate with the two women who are there.  One, a young one with small children about the age of ours (to whom she often gives grapes or cherries when they pass), and the other a little, old, wrinkled, brown-faced grandmother, who sits all day, in all weathers, under an awning made of an old sail and helps her daughter.