In a month and without effort, Father Gusson took in ten times more money than he had earned in all his long and hardworking life before.

CHAPTER X

TRIUMPH OF THE OINTMENT

The craze of the public for this new preparation was extraordinary.  A china factory, about to close its doors, made a fortune out of manufacturing jars for it.  Of course all the bald people bought it.  Everyone expected it to work miracles.  The women with tow-coloured rat-tails expected to grow luxuriant black tresses and others with coarse scrubby black hair dreamed of having fine soft golden braids.

A very rich land-owner, who did not care how much he spent, rubbed with it the back of his mangy dog, and his horse’s tail, which was growing somewhat thin.

The mayor even, they tell me, put a thick layer of it onto his wig, which was beginning to wear out.  The district was steeped in it, the air seemed to smell of musk.

Alas! everything has its bad side.  The good side of this was for the merchant alone, who, though he guaranteed his wares for human beings, refused any further responsibility.  The bad side was for the hens and ducks. (I believe even the geese suffered occasionally.) I can’t tell you how many people, knowing all about the effect it had had on Yollande and the resultant fortune, tried to duplicate the famous Curly-Haired Hen, bought by Sir Booum.

In the poultry-yards around, the hens for several months had a pretty bad time.  They were nearly all plucked and rubbed with the ointment.  It was a craze, a rage with the farmers, and those hens who could retain a vestige of their plumage esteemed themselves fortunate.

It was a sad sight to see all the feathered creatures fly at the sight of a human being.  They knew by bitter experience what to expect.  Alas! with all these attempts with roosters, chickens, ducks, and turkeys, none had the desired effect.  They long remained scented and devoid of plumage, that was all.  We must take it that no subject as good as Yollande presented itself.  Nature makes these queer incomprehensible distinctions, you know, which we just can’t understand.  There was one Curly-Haired Hen, there was to be no other!  For, since her metamorphosis, for a reason unknown to this day, the Curly-Haired Hen absolutely refused to lay eggs.  This was, I must confess, a great disappointment to Sir Booum.  Like the good American he was, he would have liked to continue the race.

He had perforce to content himself with portraits of her from the pen of M. Vimar.  One of these was sent, affectionately dedicated by Yollande, to her good Mother Etienne, who regards it as her greatest treasure, and keeps it, elegantly framed, above the mantelpiece in her bedroom.  Never a day passes but the good woman looks at it with tender, motherly affection.

Father Gusson is now the owner of a pretty little house and cultivates his own garden, in which is a corner reserved for Neddy, for he too has earned his rest.