e evening, had none of the flavor, none of
the fullness or of the vigor of the peasant woman's narratives.

Well, one Thursday when I had spent all the morning in listening to
Mother Clochette, I wanted to go upstairs to her again during the day,
after picking hazelnuts with the manservant in the wood behind the
farm. I remember it all as clearly as what happened only yesterday.

On opening the door of the linen-room, I saw the old seamstress lying
on the floor by the side of her chair, her face turned down and her
arms stretched out, but still holding her needle in one hand and one of
my shirts in the other. One of her legs in a blue stocking, the longer
one no doubt, was extended under her chair, and her spectacles
glistened by the wall, where they had rolled away from her.

I ran away uttering shrill cries. They all came running, and in a few
minutes I was told that Mother Clochette was dead.

I cannot describe the profound, poignant, terrible emotion which
stirred my childish heart. I went slowly down into the drawing-room and
hid myself in a dark corner, in the depths of a great, old arm-chair,
where I knelt and wept. I remained there for a long time no doubt, for
night came on. Suddenly some one came in with a lamp--without seeing
me, however--and I heard my father and mother talking with the medical
man, whose voice I recognized.

He had been sent for immediately, and he was explaining the cause of
the accident, of which I understood nothing, however. Then he sat down
and had a glass of liqueur and a biscuit.

He went on talking, and what he then said will remain engraved on my
mind until I die! I think that I can give the exact words which he used.

"Ah!" said he, "the poor woman! she broke her leg the day of my arrival
here. I had not even had time to wash my hands after getting off the
diligence before I was sent for in all haste, for it was a bad case,
very bad.

"She was seventeen, and a pretty girl, very pretty! Would anyone
believe it? I have never told her story before, in fact no one but
myself and one other person, who is no longer living in this part of
the country, ever knew it. Now that she is dead, I may be less discreet.

"A young assistant teacher had just come to live in the village; he was
good-looking and had the bearing of a soldier. All the girls ran after
him, but he was disdainful. Besides that, he was very much afraid of
his superior, the schoolmaster, old Grabu, who occasionally