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Updated: May 25, 2025
The incident became the story of the day in all circles, and the unlucky poet could not go anywhere for fear of being tormented about "Jeannot." At length she withdrew completely from the follies, passions, and cares of the world, and bought an ancient monastic building, formerly belonging to the monks of St. Francis, near Luzarches, eighteen or twenty miles from Paris.
"You should not be cross; you are too big and strong and good. Go in and get my bowl of bread and milk for me, and hand it to me up here. It is so pleasant. It is as nice as being perched on an apple-tree." Jeannot went in obediently and handed up her breakfast to her, looking at her with shy, worshipping eyes.
"I do not like you to talk with strangers," said Jeannot, sullenly and sadly. Bébée laughed as she sat on the edge of the thatch, and looked at the shining gray skies of the early day, and the dew-wet garden, and the green fields beyond, with happy eyes that made the familiar scene transfigured to her. "Oh, Jeannot, what nonsense!
"You were spared a bad thing, lad: the child was that grand painter's light-o'-love, that is plain to see. The mischief all comes of the stuff old Antoine filled her head with a stray little by-blow of chickweed that he cockered up like a rare carnation. Oh! do not fly in a rage, Jeannot; the child is no good, and would have made an honest man rue.
"You think evil things of me, Bébée?" good Jeannot had pleaded, with a sob in his voice; and she had answered gently, "No; but do not speak to me, that is all." Then he had cursed her absent lover, and Bébée gone within and closed her door. She had no idea that the people thought ill of her. They were cold to her, and such coldness made her heart ache a little more.
And when she was dead, there was only her son, Jeannot, and he had married a devil, but yes! as Abby exclaimed, and held up her hands in reproof, truly a devil of the worst kind; and one day, when Jeannot was away, this wife had sold her, Marie, to another devil, Le Boss, who made the tours in the country for to sing and to play.
"I was reading and, Jeannot, his name is Flamen for the world, but I may call him Victor." "What do I care for his name?" "You asked it this morning." "More fool I. Why do you read? Reading is not for poor folk like you and me." Bébée smiled up at the white clear moon that sailed above the woods. She was not awake out of her dream. She only dimly heard the words he spoke.
She found two eggs, which she promised herself to take to Annémie, and looking round as she sat on the edge of the roof, with one foot on the highest rung of the ladder, saw that Jeannot was still at the gate. "You will be late in the forest, Jeannot," she cried to him. "It is such a long, long way in and out. Why do you look so sulky? and you are kicking the wicket to pieces."
"You ought to go, Jeannot, now; you are so late. I will come and see your mother to-morrow. And do not be cross, you dear big Jeannot. Days are too short to snip them up into little bits by bad temper; it is only a stupid sheep-shearer that spoils the fleece by snapping at it sharp and hard; that is what Father Francis says."
"Can I do any work for you, Bébée?" said black Jeannot in the daybreak, pushing her gate open timidly with one hand. "There is none to do, Jeannot. They want so little in this time of the year the flowers," said she, lifting her head from the sweet-peas she was tying up to their sticks.
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