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She thrust her head through the bars, and succeeded in casting a glance at the corner where the gaze of the unhappy woman was immovably riveted. When she withdrew her head from the window, her countenance was inundated with tears. "What do you call that woman?" she asked Oudarde. Oudarde replied, "We call her Sister Gudule." "And I," returned Mahiette, "call her Paquette la Chantefleurie."
There was no longer any doubt that the Egyptians had held their Sabbath on that heath, and that they had devoured the child in company with Beelzebub, as the practice is among the Mahometans. When La Chantefleurie learned these horrible things, she did not weep, she moved her lips as though to speak, but could not. On the morrow, her hair was gray. On the second day, she had disappeared.
Her mother, good woman, who had never known what to do except to shut her eyes, her mother was dead. Paquette had no longer any one to love in the world or any one to love her. La Chantefleurie had been a poor creature during the five years since her fall.
Sister Gudule!" "Sister Gudule!" repeated Oudarde. "Ah! good heavens! she no longer moves!" resumed Gervaise; "is she dead? Gudule! Gudule!" Mahiette, choked to such a point that she could not speak, made an effort. "Wait," said she. Then bending towards the window, "Paquette!" she said, "Paquette le Chantefleurie!"
In '61, the year of the coronation of our King Louis XI. whom God preserve! Paquette was so gay and so pretty that she was called everywhere by no other name than "la Chantefleurie" blossoming song. Poor girl! She had handsome teeth, she was fond of laughing and displaying them. Now, a maid who loves to laugh is on the road to weeping; handsome teeth ruin handsome eyes.
Gallantry claimed her once more; men came to see la Chantefleurie; she found customers again for her merchandise, and out of all these horrors she made baby clothes, caps and bibs, bodices with shoulder-straps of lace, and tiny bonnets of satin, without even thinking of buying herself another coverlet. Master Eustache, I have already told you not to eat that cake.
It was the monstrous child of some gypsy woman, who had given herself to the devil. He appeared to be about four years old, and talked a language which was no human tongue; there were words in it which were impossible. La Chantefleurie flung herself upon the little shoe, all that remained to her of all that she loved.
But, in that case, she must have gone out through the Porte de Vesle, and all this does not agree. Or, to speak more truly, I believe that she actually did depart by the Porte de Vesle, but departed from this world." "I do not understand you," said Gervaise. "La Vesle," replied Mahiette, with a melancholy smile, "is the river." "Poor Chantefleurie!" said Oudarde, with a shiver, "drowned!"
She recognized monsieur the archdeacon of Josas, a holy man. "Father," she inquired, "whom are they about to hang yonder?" The priest looked at her and made no reply; she repeated her question. Then he said, "I know not." "Some children said that it was a gypsy," went on the recluse. "I believe so," said the priest. Then Paquette la Chantefleurie burst into hyena-like laughter.
She was absorbed in that revery which is, in some sort, the continuation of a mournful tale, and which ends only after having communicated the emotion, from vibration to vibration, even to the very last fibres of the heart. Nevertheless, Gervaise addressed her, "And did they ever learn what became of la Chantefleurie?" Mahiette made no reply.
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