Several times during the night, Mother Etienne and the maid came to look at the hen, who, worn out by such a long day of fatigue and suffering, at last closed her eyes, relaxed, and slept till morning.

Nevertheless she was the first in the house to wake up, and at dawn began to cackle vigorously.  Germaine hastened to her, bringing a quantity of corn which the hen, doubtless owing to her fast of the day before, ate greedily.

Now the important thing was to find her a practical costume.  The weather was mild but there was great danger in allowing her to wander about in a garb as light as it was primitive.  The mornings and evenings were cool and might bring on a cold, inflammation or congestion of the lungs, rheumatism, or what not.

At all costs a new misfortune must be avoided.  At last they dressed her in silk cunningly fashioned and lined with wadding.  Thus garbed her entry into the poultry-yard was a subject of astonishment to some, fear to others, and excitement to most of the birds she met on her way.

In vain Mother Etienne strove to tone down the colours of the stuffs, to modify the cut of the garments, but Yollande long remained an object of surprise and antipathy to the majority of the poultry.

The scandal soon reached its climax.

“That hen must be mad,” said an old duck to his wife.

“Just imagine dressing up like that; she’ll come along one of these days in a bathing suit,” cried a young rooster who prided himself on his wit.

A young turkey tugged at her clothes, trying to pull them off, and all the others looked on laughing and hurling insults....  They vied with one another in sarcastic speeches.  At last, after a time, as the saying goes, “Familiarity bred contempt.”  The fear which her companions had felt at first soon changed into a familiarity often too great for the unhappy Cochin-China.  They tried to see who could play her the shabbiest trick.  Hens are often as cruel as men, which is saying a great deal.

Poor Yollande, in spite of her size, her solidity, and strength, nearly always emerged half-dressed.  Her companions could not stand her dressed like that, the sight of her irritated them.  Not content with tearing her clothes they often pecked at the poor creature as well.

Mother Etienne did her best to improve these costumes in every way—­but it was as impossible to find perfection as the philosopher’s stone.

They hoped at the farm that in time the feathers would grow again.  Meanwhile it was hard on the hen.

Nothing of the sort happened; one, two, three months passed and not the least vestige of down appeared on the hen, who had to be protected like a human being from the changes of climate and so forth.  Like a well-to-do farmer’s wife Yollande had her linen-chest and a complete outfit.