It would seem that the town, under its misty blankets in the hollow of the valley, is awaking later than its inhabitants.
These I can see from up here, spreading abroad in the streets, since it is Sunday.

One does not recognize them all at once, so changed are they by their unusual clothes;--women, ornate with color, and more monumental than on week days; some old men, slightly straightened for the occasion; and some very lowly people, whom only their cleanness vaguely disguises.
The weak sunshine is dressing the red roofs and the blue roofs and the sidewalks, and the tiny little stone setts all pressed together like pebbles, where polished shoes are shining and squeaking.

In that old house at the corner, a house like a round lantern of shadow, gloomy old Eudo is encrusted.

It forms a comical blot, as though traced on an old etching.

A little further, Madame Piot's house bulges forth, glazed like pottery.