were sold. A coachman in glazed hat sat asleep on his box before the shop of a

blanchisseuse de fin

. A woman in a bookbinder’s window was folding the sheets of a French grammar. In an angle of the houses under the high wall of the hospital garden was a cobbler’s stall. A stout, red-faced woman, standing before it, seeing me gazing round, asked if Monsieur was seeking anything in special. I said I was only looking at the old street; it must be very old. ‘Yes, one of the oldest in Paris.’ ‘And why is it called “

du Fouarre