?© de, 1799-1850 / 2008-11-01 00:00:00

When the priest had
politely faced the honeyed and bigoted broadside of words fired off
from the widow's three friends, he went into the sickroom to sit by
Madame Crochard. Decency, and some sense of reserve, compelled the
three women and old Francoise to remain in the sitting-room, and to
make such grimaces of grief as are possible in perfection only to such
wrinkled faces.
"Oh, is it not ill-luck!" cried Francoise, heaving a sigh. "This is
the fourth mistress I have buried. The first left me a hundred francs
a year, the second a sum of fifty crowns, and the third a thousand
crowns down. After thirty years' service, that is all I have to call
my own."
The woman took advantage of her freedom to come and go, to slip into a
cupboard, whence she could hear the priest.
"I see with pleasure, daughter," said Fontanon, "that you have pious
sentiments; you have a sacred relic round your neck."
Madame Crochard, with a feeble vagueness which seemed to show that she
had not all her wits about her, pulled out the Imperial Cross of the
Legion of Honor. The priest started back at seeing the Emperor's head;
he went up to the penitent again, and she spoke to him, but in such a
low tone that for some minutes Francoise could hear nothing.
"Woe upon me!" cried the old woman suddenly. "Do not desert me. What,
Monsieur l'Abbe, do you think I shall be called to account for my
daughter's soul?"
The Abbe spoke too low, and the partition was too thick for Francoise
to hear the reply.
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