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And the old woman went from her fowls to her husband and from her husband to her fowls, devoured by anxiety as to the welfare of the little chickens who were maturing in the bed and in the nest. The country people who knew the story came, agog with curiosity, to ask news of Toine. They entered his room on tiptoe, as one enters a sick-chamber, and asked: "Well! how goes it?"
You'll burst one of these fine days like a sack of corn-you old bloat, you!" Toine would laugh heartily, patting his corpulent person, and replying: "Well, well, old hen, why don't you fatten up your chickens like that? just try!" And, rolling his sleeves back from his enormous arm, he said: "That would make a fine wing now, wouldn't it?"
But the whole hamlet seemed to be the property of Antoine Macheble, nicknamed Burnt-Brandy, who was called also Toine, or Toine-My-Extra-Special, the latter in consequence of a phrase current in his mouth: "My Extra-Special is the best in France:" His "Extra-Special" was, of course, his cognac.
She was struck by this reasoning, and went away soothed and reflective. A week later she entered Toine's room with her apron full of eggs, and said: "I've just put the yellow hen on ten eggs. Here are ten for you; try not to break them." "What do you want?" asked the amazed Toine. "I want you to hatch them, you lazy creature!" she answered.
She was struck by this reasoning, and went away soothed and reflective. A week later she entered Toine's room with her apron full of eggs, and said: "I've just put the yellow hen on ten eggs. Here are ten for you; try not to break them." "What do you want?" asked the amazed Toine. "I want you to hatch them, you lazy creature!" she answered.
Is that you, Celestin?" And Celestin Maloisel answered: "Yes, it's me, Toine. Are you getting about again yet, old fellow?" "Not exactly getting about," answered Toine. "But I haven't grown thin; my carcass is still good." Soon he got into the way of asking his intimates into his room to keep him company, although it grieved him to see that they had to drink without him.
But the whole hamlet seemed to be the property of Antoine Macheble, nicknamed Burnt-Brandy, who was called also Toine, or Toine-My-Extra-Special, the latter in consequence of a phrase current in his mouth: "My Extra-Special is the best in France:" His "Extra-Special" was, of course, his cognac.
The customers rushed to Toine's room, and made a circle round him as they would round a travelling showman; while Madame Toine picked up the chicken, which had taken refuge under her husband's beard. No one spoke, so great was the tension. It was a warm April day. Outside the window the yellow hen could be heard calling to her newly-fledged brood.
"All right," said Toine; "only it keeps me fearfully hot." One morning his wife entered in a state of great excitement, and declared: "The yellow hen has seven chickens! Three of the eggs were addled." Toine's heart beat painfully. How many would he have? "Will it soon be over?" he asked, with the anguish of a woman who is about to become a mother.
For the last twenty years he had served the whole countryside with his Extra-Special and his "Burnt-Brandy," for whenever he was asked: "What shall I drink, Toine?" he invariably answered: "A burnt-brandy, my son-in-law; that warms the inside and clears the head there's nothing better for your body." He called everyone his son-in-law, though he had no daughter, either married or to be married.
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