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"Everything was changing," she would cry; "she did not know her own

servants; the fact was she spoiled them!" On one occasion Josette gave



her the "Journee du Chretien" instead of the "Quinzaine de Paques."

The whole town heard of this disaster the same evening. Mademoiselle



had been forced to leave the church and return home; and her sudden

departure, upsetting the chairs, made people suppose a catastrophe had



happened. She was therefore obliged to explain the facts to her

friends.



"Josette," she said gently, "such a thing must never happen again."

Mademoiselle Cormon was, without being aware of it, made happier by



such little quarrels, which served as cathartics to relieve her

bitterness. The soul has its needs, and, like the body, its



gymnastics. These uncertainties of temper were accepted by Josette and

Jacquelin as changes in the weather are accepted by husbandmen. Those



worthy souls remark, "It is fine to-day," or "It rains," without

arraigning the heavens. And so when they met in the morning the



servants would wonder in what humor mademoiselle would get up, just as

a farmer wonders about the mists at dawn.



Mademoiselle Cormon had ended, as it was natural she should end, in

contemplating herself only in the infinite pettinesses of her life.



Herself and God, her confessor and the weekly wash, her preserves and

the church services, and her uncle to care for, absorbed her feeble



intellect. To her the atoms of life were magnified by an optic

peculiar to persons who are selfish by nature or self-absorbed by some



accident. Her perfect health gave alarming meaning to the least little

derangement of her digestive organs. She lived under the iron rod of



the medical science of our forefathers, and took yearly four

precautionary doses, strong enough to have killed Penelope, though



they seemed to rejuvenate her mistress. If Josette, when dressing her,

chanced to discover a little pimple on the still satiny shoulders of



mademoiselle, it became the subject of endless inquiries as to the

various alimentary articles of the preceding week. And what a triumph



when Josette reminded her mistress of a certain hare that was rather

"high," and had doubtless raised that accursed pimple! With what joy



they said to each other: "No doubt, no doubt, it WAS the hare!"

"Mariette over-seasoned it," said mademoiselle. "I am always telling



her to do so lightly for my uncle and for me; but Mariette has no more

memory than--"



"The hare," said Josette.

"Just so," replied Mademoiselle; "she has no more memory than a hare,



--a very just remark."

Four times a year, at the beginning of each season, Mademoiselle



Cormon went to pass a certain number of days on her estate of

Prebaudet. It was now the middle of May, the period at which she



wished to see how her apple-trees had "snowed," a saying of that

region which expressed the effect produced beneath the trees by the



falling of their blossoms. When the circulardeposit of these fallen

petals resembled a layer of snow the owner of the trees might hope for



an abundant supply of cider. While she thus gauged her vats,

Mademoiselle Cormon also attended to the repairs which the winter



necessitated; she ordered the digging of her flower-beds and her

vegetable garden, from which she supplied her table. Every season had



its own business. Mademoiselle always gave a dinner of farewell to her

intimate friends the day before her departure, although she was



certain to see them again within three weeks. It was always a piece of

news which echoed through Alencon when Mademoiselle Cormon departed.



All her visitors, especially those who had missed a visit, came to bid

her good-bye; the salon was thronged, and every one said farewell as



though she were starting for Calcutta. The next day the shopkeepers

would stand at their doors to see the old carriole pass, and they



seemed to be telling one another some news by repeating from shop to

shop:--



"So Mademoiselle Cormon is going to Prebaudet!"

Some said: "HER bread is baked."



"Hey! my lad," replied the next man. "She's a worthy woman; if money




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