HISTORY OF A LEAVENED CAKE OF MAIZE.
At the of this history, the in the Tour-Roland was occupied. If the reader to know by whom, he has only to an ear to the of three gossips, who, at the moment when we have his attention to the Rat-Hole, were their steps the same spot, up along the water’s from the Châtelet, the Grève.
Two of these were like good of Paris. Their white ruffs; their of linsey-woolsey, red and blue; their white stockings, with in colors, well upon their legs; the square-toed shoes of leather with black soles, and, above all, their headgear, that of horn, with and laces, which the of Champagne still wear, in company with the of the of Russia, that they to that class which the middle ground what the call a woman and what they term a lady. They neither gold crosses, and it was easy to see that, in their ease, this did not from poverty, but from of being fined. Their was in very much the same manner; but there was that something about her dress and which the wife of a notary. One see, by the way in which her rose above her hips, that she had not been long in Paris. Add to this a tucker, of on her shoes—and that the of her ran of vertically, and a thousand other which good taste.
The two walked with that step to Parisian ladies, Paris to from the country. The by the hand a big boy, who in his a large, cake.
We to be to add, that, to the of the season, he was using his as a handkerchief.
The child was making them him along, æquis, as Virgil says, and at every moment, to the great of his mother. It is true that he was looking at his cake more than at the pavement. Some motive, no doubt, his it (the cake), for he himself with at it. But the mother should have taken of the cake. It was to make a Tantalus of the chubby-cheeked boy.
Meanwhile, the three (for the name of was then for women) were all talking at once.
“Let us make haste, Demoiselle Mahiette,” said the of the three, who was also the largest, to the provincial, “I that we shall arrive too late; they told us at the Châtelet that they were going to take him directly to the pillory.”
“Ah, bah! what are you saying, Demoiselle Oudarde Musnier?” the other Parisienne. “There are two hours yet to the pillory. We have time enough. Have you any one pilloried, my dear Mahiette?”
“Yes,” said the provincial, “at Reims.”
“Ah, bah! What is your at Reims? A into which only are turned. A great affair, truly!”
“Only peasants!” said Mahiette, “at the cloth market in Reims! We have very there, who have killed their father and mother! Peasants! For what do you take us, Gervaise?”
It is that the was on the point of taking offence, for the of her pillory. Fortunately, that damoiselle, Oudarde Musnier, the in time.
“By the way, Damoiselle Mahiette, what say you to our Flemish Ambassadors? Have you as ones at Reims?”
“I admit,” Mahiette, “that it is only in Paris that such Flemings can be seen.”
“Did you see among the embassy, that big who is a hosier?” asked Oudarde.
“Yes,” said Mahiette. “He has the of a Saturn.”
“And the big a belly?” Gervaise. “And the little one, with small in red eyelids, and up like a head?”
“’Tis their that are seeing,” said Oudarde, “caparisoned as they are after the fashion of their country!”
“Ah my dear,” Mahiette, in her turn an air of superiority, “what would you say then, if you had in ’61, at the at Reims, eighteen years ago, the of the and of the king’s company? Housings and of all sorts; some of cloth, of cloth of gold, with sables; others of velvet, with ermine; others all with goldsmith’s work and large of gold and silver! And what money that had cost! And what boy pages upon them!”
“That,” Oudarde dryly, “does not prevent the Flemings having very horses, and having had a superb supper yesterday with monsieur, the of the merchants, at the Hôtel-de-Ville, where they were with and hippocras, and spices, and other singularities.”
“What are you saying, neighbor!” Gervaise. “It was with the cardinal, at the Petit Bourbon that they supped.”
“Not at all. At the Hôtel-de-Ville.
“Yes, indeed. At the Petit Bourbon!”
“It was at the Hôtel-de-Ville,” Oudarde sharply, “and Dr. Scourable them a in Latin, which pleased them greatly. My husband, who is told me so.”
“It was at the Petit Bourbon,” Gervaise, with no less spirit, “and this is what the cardinal’s presented to them: twelve of hippocras, white, claret, and red; twenty-four boxes of Lyons marchpane, gilded; as many torches, two a piece; and six demi-queues[29] of Beaune wine, white and claret, the best that be found. I have it from my husband, who is a cinquantenier[30], at the Parloir-aux Bourgeois, and who was this the Flemish with those of Prester John and the Emperor of Trebizond, who came from Mesopotamia to Paris, under the last king, and who in their ears.”
“So true is it that they at the Hôtel-de-Ville,” Oudarde but little by this catalogue, “that such a of and has been seen.”
“I tell you that they were by Le Sec, of the city, at the Hôtel du Petit-Bourbon, and that that is where you are mistaken.”
“At the Hôtel-de-Ville, I tell you!”
“At the Petit-Bourbon, my dear! and they had with magic the word Hope, which is on the portal.”
“At the Hôtel-de-Ville! At the Hôtel-de-Ville! And Husson-le-Voir played the flute!”
“I tell you, no!”
“I tell you, yes!”
“I say, no!”
Plump and Oudarde was preparing to retort, and the might, perhaps, have to a of caps, had not Mahiette exclaimed,—“Look at those people assembled at the end of the bridge! There is something in their that they are looking at!”
“In sooth,” said Gervaise, “I the of a tambourine. I ’tis the little Esmeralda, who plays her with her goat. Eh, be quick, Mahiette! your and along your boy. You are come to visit the of Paris. You saw the Flemings yesterday; you must see the to-day.”
“The gypsy!” said Mahiette, her steps, and her son’s arm forcibly. “God me from it! She would my child from me! Come, Eustache!”
And she set out on a along the the Grève, until she had left the her. In the meanwhile, the child she was after her upon his knees; she breathless. Oudarde and Gervaise her.
“That your child from you!” said Gervaise. “That’s a of yours!”
Mahiette her with a air.
“The point is,” Oudarde, “that la has the same idea about the Egyptian woman.”
“What is la sachette?” asked Mahiette.
“Hé!” said Oudarde, “Sister Gudule.”
“And who is Sister Gudule?” Mahiette.
“You are of all but your Reims, not to know that!” Oudarde. “’Tis the of the Rat-Hole.”
“What!” Mahiette, “that woman to we are this cake?”
Oudarde affirmatively.
“Precisely. You will see her presently at her window on the Grève. She has the same opinion as of these of Egypt, who play the and tell to the public. No one comes her of the and Egyptians. But you, Mahiette—why do you so at the of them?”
“Oh!” said Mahiette, her child’s in hands, “I don’t want that to to me which to Paquette la Chantefleurie.”
“Oh! you must tell us that story, my good Mahiette,” said Gervaise, taking her arm.
“Gladly,” Mahiette, “but you must be of all but your Paris not to know that! I will tell you then (but ’tis not necessary for us to that I may tell you the tale), that Paquette la Chantefleurie was a of eighteen when I was one myself, that is to say, eighteen years ago, and ’tis her own fault if she is not to-day, like me, a good, plump, fresh mother of six and thirty, with a husband and a son. However, after the age of fourteen, it was too late! Well, she was the of Guybertant, of the at Reims, the same who had played King Charles VII., at his coronation, when he our river Vesle from Sillery to Muison, when Madame the Maid of Orleans was also in the boat. The old father died when Paquette was still a child; she had then no one but her mother, the sister of M. Pradon, master-brazier and in Paris, Rue Parin-Garlin, who died last year. You see she was of good family. The mother was a good woman, unfortunately, and she Paquette nothing but a of and toy-making which did not prevent the little one from very large and very poor. They at Reims, on the river front, Rue de Folle-Peine. Mark this: For I it was this which to Paquette. In ’61, the year of the of our King Louis XI. God preserve! Paquette was so and so that she was called by no other name than la Chantefleurie—blossoming song. Poor girl! She had teeth, she was of laughing and them. Now, a who loves to laugh is on the road to weeping; teeth eyes. So she was la Chantefleurie. She and her mother a living; they had been very since the death of the minstrel; their did not them in more than six a week, which not amount to two liards. Where were the days when Father Guybertant had twelve parisian, in a single coronation, with a song? One winter (it was in that same year of ’61), when the two had neither firewood, it was very cold, which gave la Chantefleurie such a color that the men called her Paquette![31] and many called her Pâquerette![32] and she was ruined.—Eustache, just let me see you bite that cake if you dare!—We that she was ruined, one Sunday when she came to church with a gold about her neck. At fourteen years of age! do you see? First it was the Vicomte de Cormontreuil, who has his tower three from Reims; then Messire Henri de Triancourt, to the King; then less than that, Chiart de Beaulion, sergeant-at-arms; then, still descending, Guery Aubergeon, to the King; then, Macé de Frépus, to the dauphin; then, Thévenin le Moine, King’s cook; then, the men and less noble, she to Guillaume Racine, of the hurdy-gurdy and to Thierry de Mer, lamplighter. Then, Chantefleurie, she to every one: she had the last of her gold piece. What shall I say to you, my damoiselles? At the coronation, in the same year, ’61, ’twas she who the of the king of the debauchees! In the same year!”
Mahiette sighed, and away a tear which from her eyes.
“This is no very history,” said Gervaise, “and in the whole of it I see nothing of any Egyptian or children.”
“Patience!” Mahiette, “you will see one child.—In ’66, ’twill be sixteen years ago this month, at Sainte-Paule’s day, Paquette was to of a little girl. The creature! it was a great to her; she had long for a child. Her mother, good woman, who had what to do to her eyes, her mother was dead. Paquette had no longer any one to love in the world or any one to love her. La Chantefleurie had been a the five years since her fall. She was alone, alone in this life, were pointed at her, she was at in the streets, by the sergeants, at by the little boys in rags. And then, twenty had arrived: and twenty is an old age for women. Folly to her in no more than her of in days; for every that came, a fled; winter hard to her once more, again in her brazier, and in her cupboard. She no longer work because, in voluptuous, she had lazy; and she much more because, in lazy, she had voluptuous. At least, that is the way in which the curé of Saint-Remy why these are and than other women, when they are old.”
“Yes,” Gervaise, “but the gypsies?”
“One moment, Gervaise!” said Oudarde, attention was less impatient. “What would be left for the end if all were in the beginning? Continue, Mahiette, I you. That Chantefleurie!”
Mahiette on.
“So she was very sad, very miserable, and her with tears. But in the of her shame, her folly, her debauchery, it to her that she should be less wild, less shameful, less dissipated, if there were something or some one in the world she love, and who love her. It was necessary that it should be a child, only a child be for that. She had this after having to love a thief, the only man who wanted her; but after a time, she that the her. Those of love either a lover or a child to their hearts. Otherwise, they are very unhappy. As she not have a lover, she a for a child, and as she had not to be pious, she her prayer to the good God for it. So the good God took on her, and gave her a little daughter. I will not speak to you of her joy; it was a of tears, and caresses, and kisses. She nursed her child herself, swaddling-bands for it out of her coverlet, the only one which she had on her bed, and no longer either cold or hunger. She once more, in of it. An old makes a mother. Gallantry her once more; men came to see la Chantefleurie; she again for her merchandise, and out of all these she clothes, and bibs, with shoulder-straps of lace, and of satin, without of herself another coverlet.—Master Eustache, I have already told you not to eat that cake.—It is that little Agnès, that was the child’s name, a name, for it was a long time since la Chantefleurie had had any surname—it is that that little one was more in and than a of Dauphiny! Among other things, she had a pair of little shoes, the like of which King Louis XI. had! Her mother had and them herself; she had on them all the of her art of embroideress, and all the of a for the good Virgin. They were the two little pink shoes that be seen. They were no longer than my thumb, and one had to see the child’s little come out of them, in order to that they had been able to into them. ’Tis true that those little were so small, so pretty, so rosy! than the of the shoes! When you have children, Oudarde, you will that there is nothing than those little hands and feet.”
“I ask no better,” said Oudarde with a sigh, “but I am waiting until it shall the good of M. Andry Musnier.”
“However, Paquette’s child had more that was about it its feet. I saw her when she was only four months old; she was a love! She had larger than her mouth, and the most black hair, which already curled. She would have been a at the age of sixteen! Her mother more over her every day. She her, her, her, her, her out, her! She her over her, she thanked God for her. Her pretty, little above all were an of wonderment, they were a of joy! She was always pressing her to them, and she from her at their smallness. She put them into the shoes, took them out, them, at them, looked at the light through them, was to see them try to walk on her bed, and would have passed her life on her knees, on and taking off the shoes from those feet, as though they had been those of an Infant Jesus.”
“The is and good,” said Gervaise in a low tone; “but where do come into all that?”
“Here,” Mahiette. “One day there in Reims a very of people. They were and who were over the country, by their and their counts. They were by to the sun, they had closely hair, and in their ears. The were still than the men. They had faces, which were always uncovered, a on their bodies, an old cloth of upon their shoulder, and their like the of a horse. The children who their would have as many monkeys. A of excommunicates. All these came direct from Egypt to Reims through Poland. The Pope had them, it was said, and had to them as to through the world for seven years, without sleeping in a bed; and so they were called penancers, and horribly. It that they had been Saracens, which was why they in Jupiter, and ten of Tournay from all archbishops, bishops, and with croziers. A from the Pope them to do that. They came to Reims to tell in the name of the King of Algiers, and the Emperor of Germany. You can that no more was needed to the entrance to the town to be them. Then the whole with good the gate of Braine, on that hill where a mill, the of the pits. And in Reims with his neighbor in going to see them. They looked at your hand, and told you prophecies; they were equal to to Judas that he would Pope. Nevertheless, were in in to them; about children stolen, cut, and devoured. The wise people said to the foolish: “Don’t go there!” and then themselves on the sly. It was an infatuation. The is, that they said fit to a cardinal. Mothers over their little ones after the Egyptians had read in their hands all of in and in Turkish. One had an emperor; another, a pope; another, a captain. Poor Chantefleurie was with curiosity; she to know about herself, and her little Agnès would not some day Empress of Armenia, or something else. So she her to the Egyptians; and the Egyptian to the child, and to it, and to it with their black mouths, and to over its little band, alas! to the great of the mother. They were over her and shoes. The child was not yet a year old. She already a little, laughed at her mother like a little thing, was and round, and a thousand little of the of paradise.
“She was very much by the Egyptians, and wept. But her mother her more and away with the good which the had for her Agnès. She was to be a beauty, virtuous, a queen. So she returned to her in the Rue Folle-Peine, very proud of with her a queen. The next day she took of a moment when the child was asleep on her bed, (for they always slept together), left the door a little way open, and ran to tell a neighbor in the Rue de la Séchesserie, that the day would come when her Agnès would be at table by the King of England and the Archduke of Ethiopia, and a hundred other marvels. On her return, no on the staircase, she said to herself: ‘Good! the child is still asleep!’ She her door open than she had left it, but she entered, mother, and ran to the bed.—The child was no longer there, the place was empty. Nothing of the child, but one of her little shoes. She out of the room, the stairs, and to her against the wall, crying: ‘My child! who has my child? Who has taken my child?’ The was deserted, the house isolated; no one tell her anything about it. She about the town, all the streets, ran and the whole day long, wild, herself, terrible, at doors and like a wild which has its young. She was breathless, dishevelled, to see, and there was a fire in her which her tears. She stopped the passers-by and cried: ‘My daughter! my daughter! my little daughter! If any one will give me my daughter, I will be his servant, the of his dog, and he shall eat my if he will.’ She met M. le Curé of Saint-Remy, and said to him: ‘Monsieur, I will till the earth with my finger-nails, but give me my child!’ It was heartrending, Oudarde; and I saw a very hard man, Master Ponce Lacabre, the procurator, weep. Ah! mother! In the she returned home. During her absence, a neighbor had two up to it with a in their arms, then again, after the door. After their departure, something like the of a child were in Paquette’s room. The mother, into of laughter, the stairs as though on wings, and entered.—A thing to tell, Oudarde! Instead of her little Agnès, so and so fresh, who was a gift of the good God, a of little monster, lame, one-eyed, deformed, was and over the floor. She her in horror. ‘Oh!’ said she, ‘have the my into this animal?’ They to away the little club-foot; he would have her mad. It was the child of some woman, who had herself to the devil. He appeared to be about four years old, and talked a language which was no tongue; there were in it which were impossible. La Chantefleurie herself upon the little shoe, all that to her of all that she loved. She so long over it, mute, and without breath, that they she was dead. Suddenly she all over, her with kisses, and out as though her were broken. I you that we were all also. She said: ‘Oh, my little daughter! my little daughter! where art thou?’—and it your very heart. I still when I think of it. Our children are the of our bones, you see.—My Eustache! art so fair!—If you only how he is! yesterday he said to me: ‘I want to be a gendarme, that I do.’ Oh! my Eustache! if I were to thee!—All at once la Chantefleurie rose, and set out to through Reims, screaming: ‘To the gypsies’ camp! to the gypsies’ camp! Police, to the witches!’ The were gone. It was dark. They not be followed. On the morrow, two from Reims, on a Gueux and Tilloy, the of a large fire were found, some which had to Paquette’s child, of blood, and the of a ram. The night just past had been a Saturday. There was no longer any that the Egyptians had their Sabbath on that heath, and that they had the child in company with Beelzebub, as the is among the Mahometans. When La Chantefleurie learned these things, she did not weep, she moved her as though to speak, but not. On the morrow, her was gray. On the second day, she had disappeared.
“’Tis in truth, a tale,” said Oudarde, “and one which would make a Burgundian weep.”
“I am no longer surprised,” added Gervaise, “that of the should you on so sharply.”
“And you did all the better,” Oudarde, “to with your Eustache just now, since these also are from Poland.”
“No,” said Gervais, “’tis said that they come from Spain and Catalonia.”
“Catalonia? ’tis possible,” Oudarde. “Pologne, Catalogne, Valogne, I always those three provinces, One thing is certain, that they are gypsies.”
“Who certainly,” added Gervaise, “have teeth long to eat little children. I should not be if la Smeralda ate a little of them also, though she to be dainty. Her white that are too for there not to be some it all.”
Mahiette walked on in silence. She was in that which is, in some sort, the of a tale, and which ends only after having the emotion, from to vibration, to the very last of the heart. Nevertheless, Gervaise her, “And did they learn what of la Chantefleurie?” Mahiette no reply. Gervaise her question, and her arm, calling her by name. Mahiette appeared to from her thoughts.
“What of la Chantefleurie?” she said, the was still fresh in her ear; then, making an to her attention to the meaning of her words, “Ah!” she briskly, “no one out.”
She added, after a pause,—
“Some said that she had been to Reims at by the Fléchembault gate; others, at daybreak, by the old Basée gate. A man her gold on the in the where the is held. It was that ornament which had her ruin, in ’61. It was a gift from the Vicomte de Cormontreuil, her lover. Paquette had been to part with it, as she had been. She had to it as to life itself. So, when we saw that abandoned, we all that she was dead. Nevertheless, there were people of the Cabaret Vantes, who said that they had her pass along the road to Paris, walking on the with her feet. But, in that case, she must have gone out through the Porte de Vesle, and all this not agree. Or, to speak more truly, I that she actually did by the Porte de Vesle, but from this world.”
“I do not you,” said Gervaise.
“La Vesle,” Mahiette, with a smile, “is the river.”
“Poor Chantefleurie!” said Oudarde, with a shiver,—“drowned!”
“Drowned!” Mahiette, “who have told good Father Guybertant, when he passed under the of Tingueux with the current, in his barge, that one day his dear little Paquette would also pass that bridge, but without song or boat.
“And the little shoe?” asked Gervaise.
“Disappeared with the mother,” Mahiette.
“Poor little shoe!” said Oudarde.
Oudarde, a big and woman, would have been well pleased to in company with Mahiette. But Gervaise, more curious, had not her questions.
“And the monster?” she said suddenly, to Mahiette.
“What monster?” the latter.
“The little left by the in Chantefleurie’s chamber, in for her daughter. What did you do with it? I you it also.”
“No.” Mahiette.
“What? You it then? In sooth, that is more just. A child!”
“Neither the one the other, Gervaise. Monseigneur the himself in the child of Egypt, it, it, the from its body, and sent it to Paris, to be on the at Notre-Dame, as a foundling.”
“Those bishops!” Gervaise, “because they are learned, they do nothing like else. I just put it to you, Oudarde, the idea of the among the foundlings! For that little was the devil. Well, Mahiette, what did they do with it in Paris? I am sure that no person wanted it.”
“I do not know,” the Rémoise, “’twas just at that time that my husband the office of notary, at Beru, two from the town, and we were no longer with that story; besides, in of Beru, the two of Cernay, which the towers of the in Reims from view.”
While thus, the three had at the Place de Grève. In their absorption, they had passed the public of the Tour-Roland without stopping, and took their way the around which the was more with every moment. It is that the which at that moment all looks in that direction, would have them the Rat-Hole, and the which they to make there, if big Eustache, six years of age, Mahiette was along by the hand, had not the object to them: “Mother,” said he, as though some him that the Rat-Hole was him, “can I eat the cake now?”
If Eustache had been more adroit, that is to say, less greedy, he would have to wait, and would only have that question, “Mother, can I eat the cake, now?” on their return to the University, to Master Andry Musnier’s, Rue Madame la Valence, when he had the two arms of the Seine and the five of the city the Rat-Hole and the cake.
This question, at the moment when Eustache put it, Mahiette’s attention.
“By the way,” she exclaimed, “we are the recluse! Show me the Rat-Hole, that I may her her cake.”
“Immediately,” said Oudarde, “’tis a charity.”
But this did not Eustache.
“Stop! my cake!” said he, ears with his shoulders, which, in such cases, is the of discontent.
The three their steps, and, on in the of the Tour-Roland, Oudarde said to the other two,—
“We must not all three into the at once, for of the recluse. Do you two to read the Dominus in the breviary, while I my nose into the aperture; the me a little. I will give you when you can approach.”
She alone to the window. At the moment when she looked in, a was on all her features, and her frank, its and color as as though it had passed from a of to a of moonlight; her humid; her mouth contracted, like that of a person on the point of weeping. A moment later, she her on her lips, and a to Mahiette to near and look.
Mahiette, much touched, up in silence, on tiptoe, as though the of a person.
It was, in fact, a which presented itself to the of the two women, as they through the of the Rat-Hole, neither breathing.
The was small, than it was long, with an ceiling, and viewed from within, it a to the of a bishop’s mitre. On the which the floor, in one corner, a woman was sitting, or rather, crouching. Her rested on her knees, which her arms pressed to her breast. Thus up, in a sack, which her in large folds, her long, over in front, over her and along her nearly to her feet, she presented, at the glance, only a against the dark of the cell, a of triangle, which the of through the opening, cut into two shades, the one sombre, the other illuminated. It was one of those spectres, light, shadow, such as one in and in the work of Goya, pale, motionless, sinister, over a tomb, or against the of a prison cell.
It was neither a woman, a man, a being, a form; it was a figure, a of vision, in which the and the each other, like and day. It was with that one distinguished, her which spread to the ground, a and profile; her dress allowed the of a to escape, which on the hard, cold pavement. The little of of which one a this of mourning, a shudder.
That figure, which one might have to be to the flagstones, appeared to neither movement, thought, breath. Lying, in January, in that thin, sack, on a floor, without fire, in the of a air-hole allowed only the cold breeze, but the sun, to enter from without, she did not appear to or to think. One would have said that she had to with the cell, ice with the season. Her hands were clasped, her fixed. At one took her for a spectre; at the second, for a statue.
Nevertheless, at intervals, her opened to admit a breath, and trembled, but as and as as the which the wind aside.
Nevertheless, from her there a look, an look, a profound, lugubrious, look, upon a of the which not be from without; a which to all the of that in upon some object.
Such was the who had received, from her habitation, the name of the “recluse”; and, from her garment, the name of “the nun.”
The three women, for Gervaise had Mahiette and Oudarde, through the window. Their the light in the cell, without the being they thus of it to pay any attention to them. “Do not let us trouble her,” said Oudarde, in a low voice, “she is in her ecstasy; she is praying.”
Meanwhile, Mahiette was with ever-increasing at that wan, withered, head, and her with tears. “This is very singular,” she murmured.
She her through the bars, and succeeded in a at the where the of the woman was riveted.
When she her from the window, her was with tears.
“What do you call that woman?” she asked Oudarde.
Oudarde replied,—
“We call her Sister Gudule.”
“And I,” returned Mahiette, “call her Paquette la Chantefleurie.”
Then, her on her lips, she to the Oudarde to her through the window and look.
Oudarde looked and beheld, in the where the of the were in that ecstasy, a shoe of pink satin, with a thousand designs in gold and silver.
Gervaise looked after Oudarde, and then the three women, upon the mother, to weep.
But neither their looks their the recluse. Her hands clasped; her mute; her fixed; and that little shoe, thus at, the of any one who her history.
The three had not yet a single word; they not speak, in a low voice. This silence, this grief, this in which had one thing, produced upon them the of the at Christmas or Easter. They silent, they meditated, they were to kneel. It to them that they were to enter a church on the day of Tenebræ.
At length Gervaise, the most of the three, and the least sensitive, to make the speak:
“Sister! Sister Gudule!”
She this call three times, her voice each time. The did not move; not a word, not a glance, not a sigh, not a of life.
Oudarde, in her turn, in a sweeter, more voice,—“Sister!” said she, “Sister Sainte-Gudule!”
The same silence; the same immobility.
“A woman!” Gervaise, “and one not to be moved by a catapult!”
“Perchance she is deaf,” said Oudarde.
“Perhaps she is blind,” added Gervaise.
“Dead, perchance,” returned Mahiette.
It is that if the had not already this inert, sluggish, body, it had at least and itself in the of the organs no longer penetrated.
“Then we must the cake on the window,” said Oudarde; “some will take it. What shall we do to her?”
Eustache, who, up to that moment had been by a little by a large dog, which had just passed, that his three were at something through the window, and, taking of him in his turn, he upon a post, himself on tiptoe, and his fat, red to the opening, shouting, “Mother, let me see too!”
At the of this clear, fresh, child’s voice, the trembled; she her with the sharp, movement of a spring, her long, hands the from her brow, and she upon the child, bitter, astonished, eyes. This was but a flash.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed, her on her knees, and it as though her voice her as it passed from it, “do not me those of others!”
“Good day, madam,” said the child, gravely.
Nevertheless, this had, so to speak, the recluse. A long her from to foot; her teeth chattered; she her and said, pressing her against her hips, and her in her hands as though to warm them,—
“Oh, how cold it is!”
“Poor woman!” said Oudarde, with great compassion, “would you like a little fire?”
She her in of refusal.
“Well,” Oudarde, her with a flagon; “here is some which will warm you; drink it.”
Again she her head, looked at Oudarde and replied, “Water.”
Oudarde persisted,—“No, sister, that is no for January. You must drink a little and eat this cake of maize, which we have for you.”
She the cake which Mahiette offered to her, and said, “Black bread.”
“Come,” said Gervaise, in her turn with an of charity, and her cloak, “here is a which is a little than yours.”
She the as she had the and the cake, and replied, “A sack.”
“But,” the good Oudarde, “you must have to some extent, that yesterday was a festival.”
“I do it,” said the recluse; “’tis two days now since I have had any water in my crock.”
She added, after a silence, “’Tis a festival, I am forgotten. People do well. Why should the world think of me, when I do not think of it? Cold makes cold ashes.”
And as though with having said so much, she her on her again. The and Oudarde, who that she from her last that she was of the cold, innocently, “Then you would like a little fire?”
“Fire!” said the nun, with a accent; “and will you also make a little for the little one who has been the for these fifteen years?”
Every was trembling, her voice quivered, her flashed, she had herself upon her knees; she her thin, white hand the child, who was her with a look of astonishment. “Take away that child!” she cried. “The Egyptian woman is about to pass by.”
Then she on the earth, and her the stone, with the of one against another stone. The three her dead. A moment later, however, she moved, and they her herself, on her and elbows, to the where the little shoe was. Then they not look; they no longer saw her; but they a thousand and a thousand sighs, with cries, and like those of a in with a wall. Then, after one of these blows, so that all three of them staggered, they no more.
“Can she have killed herself?” said Gervaise, to pass her through the air-hole. “Sister! Sister Gudule!”
“Sister Gudule!” Oudarde.
“Ah! good heavens! she no longer moves!” Gervaise; “is she dead? Gudule! Gudule!”
Mahiette, to such a point that she not speak, an effort. “Wait,” said she. Then the window, “Paquette!” she said, “Paquette le Chantefleurie!”
A child who upon the of a bomb, and makes it in his face, is no more than was Mahiette at the of that name, into the of Sister Gudule.
The all over, rose on her feet, and at the window with so that Mahiette and Oudarde, and the other woman and the child to the of the quay.
Meanwhile, the of the appeared pressed to the of the air-hole. “Oh! oh!” she cried, with an laugh; “’tis the Egyptian who is calling me!”
At that moment, a which was at the her wild eye. Her with horror, she her two arms from her cell, and in a voice which a death-rattle, “So ’tis once more, of Egypt! ’Tis who me, of children! Well! Be accursed! accursed! accursed! accursed!”
