52 STRAY- AW AYS 



no other sense be regarded as the staff of Hfc. What- 

 ever it may be, let us walk on the far side of the gutter, 

 • with tlic hand-barrow people and the dogs, that we 

 may not be maimed for life among the cloth boots. 

 The bakers' shops seem to have much of the custom ; 

 their big guillotine knives lop off endless yards of 

 pain de menage, and fresh supplies are introduced, 

 carried in tall sheaves from dens at the back of the 

 shop, while a gratifying glimpse of the family breakfast 

 is obtained with the opening door. Here, at a shop 

 with a fine marble counter, a fight has arisen with the 

 suddenness of a cyclone. The customer, punching 

 a three-sous loaf of brown pain de seigle with a cast- 

 iron thumb, has pronounced it stale. Madame behind 

 the counter has, with the air of a stage duchess, coldly 

 informed Madame the customer that, on the contrary, 

 it is perfectly fresh. On this the battle has instantly 

 raged. The ducal calm of Madame of the shop 

 vanishes ; she is transformed into a virago of the 

 ordinary kind, with a command of language that is 

 less ordinary — is, in fact, incredible. The customer 

 screams like a cockatoo, but is obviously going to be 

 worsted, and Monsieur of the bakery has protruded 

 his long nose and truculent moustache from the 

 inner room. His face is in itself a breach of the 

 peace. 



In the next shop there is a great calm. It is a 

 butcher's, and the only customer is an old woman, 

 with a white handkerchief surmounting her corpse- 

 white face, and a strenuous, shaking hand folding 

 together her blue apron with its load of marketing. 

 She is buying two sous' worth of soup from a vat in 

 the back kitchen, and is complaining in a toothless 

 lisp that she has not been given her full share of the 

 cold grease that lies on top. Madame at the desk, 

 a large, red woman who suggests a skinned bull-dog. 



