BOOK SIXTH.
CHAPTER 3. HISTORY OF A LEAVENED CAKE OF MAIZE.
(continued)
"Come," said Gervaise, seized in her turn with an impulse
of charity, and unfastening her woolen cloak, "here is a cloak
which is a little warmer than yours."
She refused the cloak as she had refused the flagon and
the cake, and replied, "A sack."
"But," resumed the good Oudarde, "you must have perceived
to some extent, that yesterday was a festival."
"I do perceive it," said the recluse; "'tis two days now
since I have had any water in my crock."
She added, after a silence, "'Tis a festival, I am forgotten.
People do well. Why should the world think of me, when I
do not think of it? Cold charcoal makes cold ashes."
And as though fatigued with having said so much, she
dropped her head on her knees again. The simple and charitable
Oudarde, who fancied that she understood from her last
words that she was complaining of the cold, replied innocently,
"Then you would like a little fire?"
"Fire!" said the sacked nun, with a strange accent; "and
will you also make a little for the poor little one who has
been beneath the sod for these fifteen years?"
Every limb was trembling, her voice quivered, her eyes
flashed, she had raised herself upon her knees; suddenly she
extended her thin, white hand towards the child, who was
regarding her with a look of astonishment. "Take away
that child!" she cried. "The Egyptian woman is about to
pass by."
Then she fell face downward on the earth, and her forehead
struck the stone, with the sound of one stone against another
stone. The three women thought her dead. A moment later,
however, she moved, and they beheld her drag herself, on her
knees and elbows, to the corner where the little shoe was.
Then they dared not look; they no longer saw her; but they
heard a thousand kisses and a thousand sighs, mingled with
heartrending cries, and dull blows like those of a head in
contact with a wall. Then, after one of these blows, so violent
that all three of them staggered, they heard no more.
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