lived under the iron rod of the medical science of our forefathers, and took yearly four precautionary doses, strong enough to have killed Penelope, though they seemed to rejuvenate her mistress.  If Josette, when dressing her, chanced to discover a little pimple on the still satiny shoulders of mademoiselle, it became the subject of endless inquiries as to the various alimentary articles of the preceding week.  And what a triumph when Josette reminded her mistress of a certain hare that was rather “high,” and had doubtless raised that accursed pimple!  With what joy they said to each other:  “No doubt, no doubt, it was the hare!”

“Mariette over-seasoned it,” said mademoiselle.  “I am always telling her to do so lightly for my uncle and for me; but Mariette has no more memory than—­”

“The hare,” said Josette.

“Just so,” replied Mademoiselle; “she has no more memory than a hare, —­a very just remark.”

Four times a year, at the beginning of each season, Mademoiselle Cormon went to pass a certain number of days on her estate of Prebaudet.  It was now the middle of May, the period at which she wished to see how her apple-trees had “snowed,” a saying of that region which expressed the effect produced beneath the trees by the falling of their blossoms.  When the circular deposit of these fallen petals resembled a layer of snow the owner of the trees might hope for an abundant supply of cider.  While she thus gauged her vats, Mademoiselle Cormon also attended to the repairs which the winter necessitated; she ordered the digging of her flower-beds and her vegetable garden, from which she supplied her table.  Every season had its own business.  Mademoiselle always gave a dinner of farewell to her intimate friends the day before her departure, although she was certain to see them again within three weeks.  It was always a piece of news which echoed through Alencon when Mademoiselle Cormon departed.  All her visitors, especially those who had missed a visit, came to bid her good-bye; the salon was thronged, and every one said farewell as though she were starting for Calcutta.  The next day the shopkeepers would stand at their doors to see the old carriole pass, and they seemed to be telling one another some news by repeating from shop to shop:—­

“So Mademoiselle Cormon is going to Prebaudet!”

Some said:  “Her bread is baked.”

“Hey! my lad,” replied the next man.  “She’s a worthy woman; if money always came into such hands we shouldn’t see a beggar in the country.”

Another said:  “Dear me, I shouldn’t be surprised if the vineyards were in bloom; here’s Mademoiselle Cormon going to Prebaudet.  How happens it she doesn’t marry?”

“I’d marry her myself,” said a wag; “in fact, the marriage is half-made, for here’s one consenting party; but the other side won’t.  Pooh! the oven is heating for Monsieur du Bousquier.”

“Monsieur du Bousquier!  Why, she has refused him.”