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Updated: May 21, 2025
"My man shall have a full bottle of the best to-night," she added, wiping her wet hands across her strong bare knees. "How much 'cake' does that old crab of a Bourron pay thee?" she inquired, turning again to the child. "Six sous a day, and then my food and lodging," confessed Yvonne. "He won't ruin himself," muttered Marianne.
Jean-Marie put his faith in Madame Desprez; and as they drove forward down the road from Bourron, between the rustling poplars, he prayed in his teeth, and whipped up the horse to an unusual speed. Surely, as soon as they arrived, madame would assert her character, and bring this waking nightmare to an end.
Well, compared with Gretz, Bourron is a perfect shambles. The morning after he had been summoned to the dying mountebank, the Doctor visited the wharf at the tail of his garden, and had a long look at the running water. This he called prayer; but whether his adorations were addressed to the goddess Hygieia or some more orthodox deity, never plainly appeared.
One beautiful creature as large as a swallow used to fly into our dining room every evening for warmth; fastening itself to the wall it would there remain undisturbed until the morning. I finish these reminiscences of Bourron by the following citation from Balzac's "Ursule Mirouet":
At daylight she drove her cows back to the marsh without having barely touched her soup. Far across the bay glistened the roof of a barn under construction. An object the size of a beetle was crawling over the new boards. It was Jean. "I'm a fool," he thought, as he drove in a nail. Then he fell to thinking of a girl in his own village whose father was as rich as the Père Bourron.
Before another month had passed, the Mère Bourron had sold the farm and gone to live with her sister a lean woman who took in sewing. Yvonne was free. Free to work and to be married, and she did work with silent ferocity from dawn until dark, washing the heavy coarse linen for a farm, and scrubbing the milk-pans bright until often long after midnight and saved.
He called in his confrere from Bourron, took a fancy for him, magnified his capacity, and was pretty soon under treatment himself it scarcely appeared for what complaint. He and Jean-Marie had each medicine to take at different periods of the day. The Doctor used to lie in wait for the exact moment, watch in hand.
I turned and went down the mountain in silence; and when I looked back for the last time before the wood closed about my path, I saw Olalla still leaning on the crucifix. They had sent for the doctor from Bourron before six. About eight some villagers came round for the performance, and were told how matters stood.
But a leading incident of "Ursule Mirouet" occurs at Bourron a sufficient reason for recalling the story here. The beauty of our village, like the beauty of French women, to quote Michelet, "is made up of little nothings." There are a hundred and one pretty things to see but very few to describe. Who could wish it otherwise?
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