one hundred francs; but I'll sell it you for fifty—nay, for”—and then an abatement commenced on the same scale as before; “Now who will have it, lift up their hands! What?—Has nobody any money? Buy it all the same! That's nothing; there!”—and the trowser-piece flew into the embrace of a substantial old woman. “There, that is not merchandise which I sell you, but a present which I make you!”
A third commended a little flute, “an English flute, mounted with the purest silver.” It had cost fifteen francs, but he would sell it for five—abatement then followed, as before—“Ah, well, you have not any money with you!—But for these handkerchiefs, however!—Buy them!—It is handsome, look you, to go out on a Sunday, with a corner of one hanging from each pocket, to show that you have money to spend on both sides!”
Each dealer shouts, and fights, as it were, with both
arms, whilst he throws off, one after another,
neckkerchief, coat, waistcoat, and stands there in his
shirt-sleeves.
One, who appears to be more of a Monsieur than the others, because he wears a hat, and they only caps, stands in a cabriolet, and recommends, with pedantic loquacity, various razors, which he flourishes about and makes to glitter in the bright sunshine, before the eyes of the spectators.
Every shouting dealer collects around him a crowd of listeners; these, however, are circumspect purchasers, and don't permit themselves to be decoyed. Now and then, a handkerchief, a paper of buttons, a hank of thread, flies into the embrace of a peasant woman
