Petit-Jacques, by
means of a long pole, seized her and drew her to land at Mother
Etienne's feet. Labrie came up and sniffed sadly at the body of
the unhappy hen. In vain they dried her and rubbed her,--nothing
did any good.
"She's quite dead, alas," said Mother Etienne with tears in her
eyes, "but it was my own fault. I ought to have closed down the
lattice and this misfortune would not have happened. It really is
a great pity--such a fine hen. She weighs at least eight pounds.
There, Germaine, take her and weigh her."
Germaine was the maid and also the cousin of Petit-Jacques--of
whom she was very fond. She was a fine buxom girl of eighteen,
strong and well-grown. She loved animals, too, but her feeling for
them could not be compared to Mother Etienne's.
"Germaine, take away poor Yollande, I am quite upset
by this trouble. You will bury her this evening, in a corner of
the kitchen-garden--deep enough to prevent any animal digging her
up. I leave it to you--do it carefully."
The girl bore away the fine hen in her apron. "How heavy she
is--it is a shame," and blowing apart the feathers, she saw the skin
underneath as yellow and plump as you could wish. Mechanically she
plucked a few feathers.
"After all," she said, "it isn't as though she had died--she was
drowned, quite a clean death; she's firm and healthy, only an hour
ago she was as strong and well as could be. Why shouldn't we eat
her?--We'll stew her because, though she is not old, she is not
exactly in her first youth--but there's a lot on her--with a
dressing of carrots and nutmeg, a bunch of herbs and a tomato,
with a calf's foot to make a good jelly, I believe she'd make a
lovely dinner.
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