Chapter 13

Then the Countess，turning toward Mrs．CarréLamadon，broke the difficult silence：

“I believe you know Madame d'Etrelles？”

“Yes，she is one of my friends．”

“What a charming woman！”

“Delightful！A very gentle nature，and well educated，besides；then she is an artist to the tips of her fingers，sings beautifully，and draws to perfection．”

The manufacturer chatted with the Count，and in the midst of the rattling of the glass，an occasional word escaped such as“coupon-premiun-limit-expiration．”

Loiseau，who had pilfered the old pack of cards from the inn，greasy through five years of contact with tables badly cleaned，began a game of bezique with his wife．

The good sisters took from their belt the long rosary which hung there，made together the sign of the cross，and suddenly began to move their lips in a lively murmur，as if they were going through the whole of the “Oremus．”And from time to time they kissed a medal，made the sigh anew，then recommenced their muttering，which was rapid and continued．

Cornudet sat motionless，thinking．

At the end of three hours on the way，Loiseau put up the cards and said：“I am hungry．”

His wife drew out a package from whence she brought a piece of cold veal．She cut it evenly in thin pieces and they both began to eat．

“Suppose we do the same，”said the Countess．

They consented to it and she undid the provisions prepared for the two couples．It was in one of those dishes whose lid is decorated with a china hare，

rivers of lard cross the brown flesh of the game，mixed with some other viands hashed fine．A beautiful square of Gruyère cheese，wrapped in a piece of newspaper，preserved the imprint“divers things” up－on the unctuous plate．

The two good sisters unrolled a big sausage which smelled of garlic；and Cornudet plunged his two hands into the vast pockets of his overcoat，at the same time，and drew out four hard eggs and a piece of bread．He removed the shells and threw them in the straw under his feet；then he began to eat the eggs，letting fall on his vast beard some bits of clear yellow，which looked like stars caught there．

Ball-of－Fat，in the haste and distraction of her rising， had not thought of anything； and she looked at them exasperated，suffocating with rage，at all of them eating so placidly．A tumultuous anger swept over her at first，and she opened her mouth to cry out at them， to hurl at them a flood of injury which mounted to her lips；but she could hot speak，her exasperation strangled her．

No one looked at her or thought of her．She felt herself drowned in the scorn of these honest scoundrels，who had first sacrificed her and then rejected her，like some improper or useless article．She thought of her great basket full of good things which they had greedily devoured，of her two chickens shining

and her fury suddenly falling，as a cord drawn too tightly breaks，she felt ready to weep．She made terrible efforts to prevent it，making ugly faces，swallowing her sobs as children do，but the tears came and glistened in the corners of her eyes，and then two great drops，detaching themselves from the rest，rolled slowly down like little streams of water that filter through rock，and falling regularly，rebounded upon her breast．She sits erect，her eyes fixed，her face rigid and pale，hoping that no one will notice her．

But the Countess perceives her and tells her husband by a sign．He shrugs his shoulders，as much as to say：

“What would you have me do，it is not my fault．”

Mrs．Loiseau indulged in a mute laugh of triumph and murmured：

“She weeps for shame．”

The two good sisters began to pray again，after having wrapped in a paper the remainder of their sausage．

Then Cornudet，who was digesting his eggs，ex-tended his legs to the seat opposite，crossed them，folded his arms，smiled like a man who is watching a good farce，and began to whistle the”Marseillaise．”

All faces grew dark．The popular song assuredly did not please his neighbors．They became nervous and agitated，having an appearance of wishing to howl，like dogs，when they hear a barbarous organ．He perceived this but did not stop．Sometimes he would hum the words：

“Sacred love of country

Help，sustain th'avenging arm；

Liberty，sweet Liberty

Ever fight，with no alarm．”

They traveled fast，the snow being harder．But as far as Dieppe，during the long，sad hours of the journey，across the jolts in the road，through the falling night， in the profound darkness of the carriage，he continued his vengeful，monotonous whistling with a ferocious obstinacy，contraining his neighbors to follow the song from one end to the other，and to recall the words that be-longed to each measure．

And Ball－of－Fat wept continually；and sometimes a sob，which she was not able to restrain，echoed between the two rows of people in the shadows．