And  we  went  and  leaned  with  our  elbows  on  the
window-sill  facing  the  street,  keeping  our  hands  over
the  little  rolls  of  tobacco  wrapped  up  in  tissue-paper
so  that  they  concealed  them  from  view  like  a  shell.
Just  opposite  to  us  was  a  laundry.  Four  women  in
white  bodices  were  passing  over  the  linen  spread  out
before  them  the  heavy  and  hot  irons,  letting  a  damp
fume  escape  from  them.
Suddenly,  another,  a  fifth  carrying  on  her  arm  a
large  basket  which  made  her  back  stoop,  came  out
to  bring  the  customers  their  shirts  and  chemises,  their
handkerchiefs  and  their  sheets.  She  stopped  on  the
threshold  as  if  she  were  already  fatigued;  then,  she
raised  her  eyes,  smiled  when  she  saw  us  smoking,
flung  at  us,  with  her  left  hand,  which  was  free,  the
sly  kiss  characteristic  of  a  free-and-easy  working-
woman;  and  she  went  away  at  a  slow  pace  dragging
her  shoes  after  her.
She  was  a  damsel  of  about  twenty,  small,  rather
thin,  pale,  rather  pretty,  with  the  manners  of  a  street-
wench,  and  eyes  laughing  under  her  ill-combed  fair
hair.
Pdre  PiQuedent,  affected,  began  murmuring:


THE  QUESTION  OF  LATIN  73

"What  an  occupation  for  a  woman.  Really  a  trade
only  fit  for  a  horse."

And  he  spoke  with  emotion  about  the  misery  of
the  people.  He  had  a  heart  which  swelled  with  lofty
democratic  sentiment,  and  he  referred  to  the  fatiguing
pursuits  of  the  working  class  with  phrases  borrowed
from  Jean-Jacques  Rousseau  and  with  sobs  in  his
throat.
Next  day,  as  we  were  resting  our  elbows  at  the
same  window,  the  same  workwoman  perceived  us,
and  cried  out  to  us:

"Good  day,  my  scholars!"  in  a  comical  sort  of
tone,  while  she  made  a  contemptuous  gesture  with
her  hands.
