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Updated: June 1, 2025
"Toinette is jolly when she stares. Her eyes look big and her cheeks grow pink. Andre Brugen thinks his sister Aline is prettiest, but I don't. Our Toinette is ever so pretty." "She is ever so nice, too," said Pierre. "She's as good to play with as as a boy," finished triumphantly. "Oh, I wish my Toinette would come," said Jeanneton.
"His father is dead, but his mother is still alive, and resides with her uncle, Canon Casanova." That was enough. The good woman was my Welsh cousin, and her children were my Welsh nephews. My niece Jeanneton was not pretty; but she appeared to be a good girl. I continued my conversation with the mother, but I changed the topic.
By and by a little voice within her woke up and began to make itself audible. All of us know this little voice. We call it conscience. "Jeanneton missed me," she thought. "And, oh, dear! I pushed her away only last night and wouldn't tell her a story. And Marie hoped I was having a pleasant time somewhere. I wish I hadn't slapped Marie last Friday.
It was no more than in harmony with this habit of mine, that when, next morning in the common-room of the Connetable, I espied Jeanneton, the landlord's daughter, and remarked that she was winsome and shapely, with a complexion that would not have dishonoured a rose-petal, I permitted myself to pinch her dainty cheek. She slapped mine in return, and in this pleasant manner we became acquainted.
One day a salad, the abstemious relish yielded by his garden herbs, was set on the table by Jeanneton. At the first mouthful the good curé made a terrible face the salad tasted of lamp-oil. The unhappy girl had filled a cruet with the sacred fluid. From that day the bark closed and the flow ceased.
"Hear me out, sir, if you please," resumed Alice. "I have listened to you when you spoke en berger nay, my complaisance has been so great, as to answer you en bergere for I do not think any thing except ridicule can come of dialogues between Lindor and Jeanneton; and the principal fault of the style is its extreme and tiresome silliness and affectation.
They were used to doing without Toinette and did not seem to miss her, except that now and then baby Jeanneton said: "Poor Toinette gone not here all gone." "Well, what if she has?" said Marc at last looking up from the wooden cup he was carving for Marie's doll. "We can play all the better." Marc was a bold, outspoken boy, who always told his whole mind about things.
"Very well, Guilbert," it said. "We will await this farrier's return." "Let me go, Monsieur!" cried Jeanneton. "Some one comes." Now for myself I cared little who might come, but methought that it was likely to do poor Jeanneton's fair name no benefit, if the arm of Gaston de Luynes were seen about her waist.
The smoking porridge reminded her that she was hungry; so brushing away the tears she slipped a spoon off the table and whenever she found the chance, dipped it into the bowl for a mouthful. The porridge disappeared rapidly. "I want some more," said Jeanneton. "Bless me, how fast you have eaten," said the mother, turning to the bowl.
Down into the kitchen they went, and Toinette, moving very softly, quickened the fire, set on the smallest bowl she could find, and spread the doll's table with the wooden saucers which Marc had made for Jeanneton to play with. Then she mixed and stirred as the elves bade, and when the soup was done, served it to them smoking hot. How they feasted!
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