breadth or
vigor of the peasant woman's narratives.

Well, one Tuesday, 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 ground by the side of her chair, with her face to the ground 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 against the wall, as 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 an immense old armchair, where
I knelt down and wept. I remained there a long time, no doubt, for
night came on. Suddenly somebody 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 causes 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, and 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 any one
believe it? I have never told her story before, and nobody except 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.

"Just then a young assistant-teacher came to live in the village; he
was a handsome, well-made fellow, and looked like a non-commissioned
officer. All the girls ran after him, but he paid no attention to
them, partly because he was very much afraid of his superior, the
schoolmaster, old Grabu, who occasional