ixty-year-old coster who pushed a heavy barrow down the Avenue de
Neuilly, ceaselessly calling out in a voice trembling with hunger and
increasing age--

               "Cresson de fontaine!
                La sante du corps!
                Quatre liards la botte!
                Quatre liards la botte!"

He went down on the left side of the avenue, halting before every door;
but everywhere the porters' wives shook their heads, for the younger
and stronger ones had stolen a march on the old man, and had already
supplied the necessary requirements for the day. He reached Porte
Mailot and gazed down the avenue which stretched before him, apparently
endlessly, down towards the Seine. He took off his black cotton cap
and with the sleeve of his blue blouse wiped the perspiration off his
forehead. Should he turn round and walk up on the right side, or should
he go to Paris to try his luck there? the wonderful luck to earn the
few pence by virtue of which he could keep up sufficient strength to
push his barrow along when to-morrow had dawned? Should he invest his
last shilling in the payment of the toll and go on to meet the unknown
fate awaiting him? He took the risk, paid the octroi and trudged along
the Avenue de la Grande Armee.

The sun had risen higher in the sky, and the pavements were still warm
from the previous day; the gay town smelled like the close, fetid
atmosphere of the bedroom, which streamed through the open windows
and hung heavily in the still air. The sunbeams heated the dust which
rose in clouds from the carpets beaten against the doorsteps; showy
advertisements flashed from privies and news-stalls, and a suffocating
smell of ammonia penetrated through the half-open doors; cigar ends,
tobacco, manure, orange skins, celery stalks, pieces of paper from
forgotten refuse heaps were carried away by the rushing stream which
gushed from the main and swept everything towards the gratings of the
gutter.

The old man cried his wares, but carts and omnibuses drowned his
voice, and no one bought. Tired, forsa