It was there that La Sarriette lived in an orchard, as it were, in an atmosphere of sweet, intoxicating scents.  The cheaper fruits—­the cherries, plums, and strawberries—­were piled up in front of her in paper-lined baskets, and the juice coming from their bruised ripeness stained the stall-front, and steamed, with a strong perfume, in the heat.  She would feel quite giddy on those blazing July afternoons when the melons enveloped her with a powerful, vaporous odour of musk; and then with her loosened kerchief, fresh as she was with the springtide of life, she brought sudden temptation to all who saw her.  It was she—­it was her arms and necks which gave that semblance of amorous vitality to her fruit.  On the stall next to her an old woman, a hideous old drunkard, displayed nothing but wrinkled apples, pears as flabby as herself, and cadaverous apricots of a witch-like sallowness.  La Sarriette’s stall, however, spoke of love and passion.  The cherries looked like the red kisses of her bright lips; the silky peaches were not more delicate than her neck; to the plums she seemed to have lent the skin from her brow and chin; while some of her own crimson blood coursed through the veins of the currants.  All the scents of the avenue of flowers behind her stall were but insipid beside the aroma of vitality which exhaled from her open baskets and falling kerchief.

That day she was quite intoxicated by the scent of a large arrival of mirabelle plums, which filled the market.  She could plainly see that Mademoiselle Saget had learnt some great piece of news, and she wished to make her talk.  But the old maid stamped impatiently whilst she repeated:  “No, no; I’ve no time.  I’m in a great hurry to see Madame Lecoeur.  I’ve just learnt something and no mistake.  You can come with me, if you like.”

As a matter of fact, she had simply gone through the fruit market for the purpose of enticing La Sarriette to go with her.  The girl could not refuse temptation.  Monsieur Jules, clean-shaven and as fresh as a cherub, was seated there, swaying to and fro on his chair.

“Just look after the stall for a minute, will you?” La Sarriette said to him.  “I’ll be back directly.”

Jules, however, got up and called after her, in a thick voice:  “Not I; no fear!  I’m off!  I’m not going to wait an hour for you, as I did the other day.  And, besides, those cursed plums of yours quite make my head ache.”

Then he calmly strolled off, with his hands in his pockets, and the stall was left to look after itself.  Mademoiselle Saget went so fast that La Sarriette had to run.  In the butter pavilion a neighbour of Madame Lecoeur’s told them that she was below in the cellar; and so, whilst La Sarriette went down to find her, the old maid installed herself amidst the cheeses.