m of Nature_, into
which M. Zola himself may well have peeped whilst writing this
story.--ED.

'If you will help me,' he said to the doctor, 'we will carry her
downstairs, and bury her with all her flowers.'

Uncle Pascal shuddered. Then he explained to the old man that it was not
allowed for one to keep the dead in that fashion.

'What! it isn't allowed!' cried Jeanbernat. 'Well, then, I will allow
it myself! Doesn't she belong to me? Isn't she mine? Do you think I am
going to let the priests walk off with her? Let them try, if they want
to get a shot from my gun!'

He sprang to his feet and waved his book about with a terrible gesture.
But the doctor caught hold of his hands and clasped them within his own,
beseeching him to be calm. And for a long time he talked to him, saying
all that he had upon his mind. He blamed himself, made fragmentary
confessions of his fault, and vaguely hinted at those who had killed
Albine.

'Listen,' he said in conclusion, 'she is yours no longer; you must give
her up.'

But Jeanbernat shook his head, and again waved his hand in token of
refusal. However, his obstinate resolution was shaken; and at last he
said:

'Well, well, let them take her, and may she break their arms for them!
I only wish that she could rise up out of the ground and kill them all
with fright.... By the way. I have a little business to settle over
there. I will go to-morrow.... Good-bye, then, doctor. The hole will do
for me.'

And, when the doctor had left, he again sat down by the dead girl's
side, and gravely resumed the perusal of his book.

XVI

That morning there was great commotion in the yard at the parsonage.
The Artaud butcher had just slaughtered Matthew, the pig, in the shed.
Desiree, quite enthusiastic about it all, had held Matthew's feet, while
he was being bled, kissing him on the back that he might feel the pain
of the knife less, and telling him that it was absolutely necessary that
he should be killed, now that he had got so fat. No one could cut off a
goose's neck with a single stroke of the hatchet more unconcernedly than
she could, or gash open a fowl's throat with a pair of scissors. However
much she loved her charges, she looked upon their slaughter with great
equanimity. It was quite necessary, she would say. It made room for the
young ones who were growing up. And that morning she was very gay.

'Mademoiselle,' grumbled La Teuse every minute, 'you will end by mak