However, Florent’s attention was diverted by the yelping of the crier, who was just offering a magnificent turbot for sale.

“I’ve a bid of thirty francs!  Thirty francs, now; thirty francs!”

He repeated these words in all sorts of keys, running up and down a strange scale of notes full of sudden changes.  Humpbacked and with his face twisted askew, and his hair rough and disorderly, he wore a great blue apron with a bib; and with flaming eyes and outstretched arms he cried vociferously:  “Thirty-one! thirty-two! thirty-three!  Thirty-three francs fifty centimes! thirty-three fifty!”

Then he paused to take breath, turning the basket-tray and pushing it farther upon the table.  The fish-wives bent forward and gently touched the turbot with their finger-tips.  Then the crier began again with renewed energy, hurling his figures towards the buyers with a wave of the hand and catching the slightest indication of a fresh bid—­the raising of a finger, a twist of the eyebrows, a pouting of the lips, a wink, and all with such rapidity and such a ceaseless jumble of words that Florent, utterly unable to follow him, felt quite disconcerted when, in a sing-song voice like that of a priest intoning the final words of a versicle, he chanted:  “Forty-two! forty-two!  The turbot goes for forty-two francs.”

It was the beautiful Norman who had made the last bid.  Florent recognised her as she stood in the line of fish-wives crowding against the iron rails which surrounded the enclosure.  The morning was fresh and sharp, and there was a row of tippets above the display of big white aprons, covering the prominent bosoms and stomachs and sturdy shoulders.  With high-set chignon set off with curls, and white and dainty skin, the beautiful Norman flaunted her lace bow amidst tangled shocks of hair covered with dirty kerchiefs, red noses eloquent of drink, sneering mouths, and battered faces suggestive of old pots.  And she also recognised Madame Quenu’s cousin, and was so surprised to see him there that she began gossiping to her neighbours about him.

The uproar of voices had become so great that Monsieur Verlaque renounced all further attempt to explain matters to Florent.  On the footway close by, men were calling out the larger fish with prolonged shouts, which sounded as though they came from gigantic speaking-trumpets; and there was one individual who roared “Mussels!  Mussels!” in such a hoarse, cracked, clamorous voice that the very roofs of the market shook.  Some sacks of mussels were turned upside down, and their contents poured into hampers, while others were emptied with shovels.  And there was a ceaseless procession of basket-trays containing skate, soles, mackerel, conger-eels, and salmon, carried backwards and forwards amidst the ever-increasing cackle and pushing of the fish-women as they crowded against the iron rails which creaked with their pressure.  The humpbacked crier, now fairly on the job, waved his skinny arms in the air