“Poor old Mother Chantemesse!” she said; “she must be at least seventy-two.  I can remember her buying turnips of my father when I was a mere chit.  And she hasn’t a relation in the world; no one but a young hussy whom she picked up I don’t know where and who does nothing but bring her trouble.  Still, she manages to live, selling things by the ha’p’orth and clearing her couple of francs profit a day.  For my own part, I’m sure that I could never spend my days on the foot-pavement in this horrid Paris!  And she hasn’t even any relations here!”

“You have some relations in Paris, I suppose?” she asked presently, seeing that Florent seemed disinclined to talk.

Florent did not appear to hear her.  A feeling of distrust came back to him.  His head was teeming with old stories of the police, stories of spies prowling about at every street corner, and of women selling the secrets which they managed to worm out of the unhappy fellows they deluded.  Madame Francois was sitting close beside him and certainly looked perfectly straightforward and honest, with her big calm face, above which was bound a black and yellow handkerchief.  She seemed about five and thirty years of age, and was somewhat stoutly built, with a certain hardy beauty due to her life in the fresh air.  A pair of black eyes, which beamed with kindly tenderness, softened the more masculine characteristics of her person.  She certainly was inquisitive, but her curiosity was probably well meant.

“I’ve a nephew in Paris,” she continued, without seeming at all offended by Florent’s silence.  “He’s turned out badly though, and has enlisted.  It’s a pleasant thing to have somewhere to go to and stay at, isn’t it?  I dare say there’s a big surprise in store for your relations when they see you.  But it’s always a pleasure to welcome one of one’s own people back again, isn’t it?”

She kept her eyes fixed upon him while she spoke, doubtless compassionating his extreme scragginess; fancying, too, that there was a “gentleman” inside those old black rags, and so not daring to slip a piece of silver into his hand.  At last, however, she timidly murmured:  “All the same, if you should happen just at present to be in want of anything——­”

But Florent checked her with uneasy pride.  He told her that he had everything he required, and had a place to go to.  She seemed quite pleased to hear this, and, as though to tranquillise herself concerning him, repeated several times:  “Well, well, in that case you’ve only got to wait till daylight.”

A large bell at the corner of the fruit market, just over Florent’s head, now began to ring.  The slow regular peals seemed to gradually dissipate the slumber that yet lingered all around.  Carts were still arriving, and the shouts of the waggoners, the cracking of their whips, and the grinding of the paving-stones beneath the iron-bound wheels and the horses’ shoes sounded with an increasing din.  The carts could now only advance by a series of spasmodic jolts, and stretched in a long line, one behind the other, till they were lost to sight in the distant darkness, whence a confused roar ascended.