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Updated: May 25, 2025
There was the length of the garden between them, and Bébée did not hear as she sat on the edge of her roof with that light dreamful enjoyment of air and sky and coolness, and all the beauty of the dawning day, which the sweet vague sense of a personal happiness will bring with it to the dullest and the coldest. "You are cross, Jeannot, that is what it is," she said, after a while.
The villagers hovered about, talking in low sad voices, and wondering, and dropping one by one into their homes. They were sorry, very sorry; but what could they do? It was quite night. The lights were put out in the lane. Jeannot, with Father Francis, prayed before the shrine of the Seven Sorrows. Mère Krebs slumbered in her rush-bottomed chair; she was old and worked hard.
"Might I know your name?" she had asked him wistfully, as she had given him the rosebud, and taken the volume in return that day. "They call me Flamen." "It is your name?" "Yes, for the world. You must call me Victor, as other women do. Why do you want my name?" "Jeannot asked it of me." "Oh, Jeannot asked it, did he?"
They had contrived his escape, she would have it, by a subterranean passage, and had handed over to the headsman in his stead a man of the common people. At the old woman's feet, in his wicker cradle, Jeannot, the last born of the Poitrines, was cutting his teeth. The citoyenne Thévenin lifted the cradle and smiled at the child, which moaned feebly, worn out with feverishness and convulsions.
Pierre, Babet, and Jeannot are off to collect the dead leaves, the leaves that once, when they were still alive, were full of dew and songs of birds, and which now strew the ground in thousands and thousands with their little shrivelled corpses. They are dead, but they smell good. They will make a fine litter for Riquette, the goat, and Roussette, the cow.
Come." "Do you mean it?" The color was bright in her face, her heart was dancing, her little feet felt themselves already on the fresh green turf. She had no thought that there could be any harm in it. She would have gone with Jeannot or old Bac. "Of course I mean it. Come. I was going to Mayence to see the Magi and Van Dyck's Christ. We will go to Soignies instead, and study green leaves.
A moment afterwards the little rickety door was shut, and the rusty bolt drawn within it; Jeannot stood in the cool summer night all alone, and knew how stupid he had been in his wrath. He leaned on the gate a minute; then crossed the garden as softly as his wooden shoes would let him. He tapped gently on the shutter of the lattice. "Bébée Bébée just listen.
The fruit girl of the Montagne de la Cour hooted after her, "Gone so soon? oh hé! what did I say? a fine pine is sugar in the teeth a second only, but the brown nuts you may crack all the seasons round. Well, did you make good harvest while it lasted? has Jeannot a fat bridal portion promised?"
Take heart of grace, and praise the saints, and marry Katto's Lisa." But Jeannot would never listen to the slanderers, and would never look at Lisa, even though the door of the little hut was always closed against him; and whenever he met Bébée on the highway she never seemed to see him more than she saw the snow that her sabots were treading. One night in the midwinter-time old Annémie died.
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