ing the attempts of the artist to drag her away
by the arm, and scratching her black mop in vexation, she pointed to an
enormous ruddy tail, severed from the quarters of some vigorous mare,
and told him she would have liked to have a crop of hair like that.

During the long rambles when Claude, Cadine, and Marjolin prowled about
the neighbourhood of the markets, they saw the iron ribs of the giant
building at the end of every street. Wherever they turned they caught
sudden glimpses of it; the horizon was always bounded by it; merely the
aspect under which it was seen varied. Claude was perpetually turning
round, and particularly in the Rue Montmartre, after passing the church.
From that point the markets, seen obliquely in the distance, filled him
with enthusiasm. A huge arcade, a giant, gaping gateway, was open before
him; then came the crowding pavilions with their lower and upper roofs,
their countless Venetian shutters and endless blinds, a vision, as it
were, of superposed houses and palaces; a Babylon of metal of Hindoo
delicacy of workmanship, intersected by hanging terraces, aerial
galleries, and flying bridges poised over space. The trio always
returned to this city round which they strolled, unable to stray
more than a hundred yards away. They came back to it during the hot
afternoons when the Venetian shutters were closed and the blinds
lowered. In the covered ways all seemed to be asleep, the ashy greyness
was streaked by yellow bars of sunlight falling through the high
windows. Only a subdued murmur broke the silence; the steps of a few
hurrying passers-by resounded on the footways; whilst the badge-wearing
porters sat in rows on the stone ledges at the corners of the pavilions,
taking off their boots and nursing their aching feet. The quietude
was that of a colossus at rest, interrupted at times by some cock-crow
rising from the cellars below.

Claude, Cadine, and Marjolin then often went to see the empty hampers
piled upon the drays, which came to fetch them every afternoon so that
they might be sent back to the consignors. There were mountains of them,
labelled with black letters and figures, in front of the salesmen's
warehouses in the Rue Berger. The porters arranged them symmetrically,
tier by tier, on the vehicles. When the pile rose, however, to the
height of a first floor, the porter who stood below balancing the next
batch of hampers had to make a spring in order to toss them up to his
mate, who