This one is so very old that I cannot understand how it has clung so vividly1 and tenaciously2 to my memory. Since then I have seen so many sinister3 things, which were either affecting or terrible, that I am astonished at not being able to pass a single day without the face of Mother Bellflower recurring4 to my mind's eye, just as I knew her formerly5, now so long ago, when I was ten or twelve years old.
She was an old seamstress who came to my parents' house once a week, every Thursday, to mend the linen6. My parents lived in one of those country houses called chateaux, which are merely old houses with gable roofs, to which are attached three or four farms lying around them.
The village, a large village, almost a market town, was a few hundred yards away, closely circling the church, a red brick church, black with age.
Well, every Thursday Mother Clochette came between half-past six and seven in the morning, and went immediately into the linen-room and began to work. She was a tall, thin, bearded or rather hairy woman, for she had a beard all over her face, a surprising, an unexpected beard, growing in improbable tufts, in curly bunches which looked as if they had been sown by a madman over that great face of a gendarme7 in petticoats. She had them on her nose, under her nose, round her nose, on her chin, on her cheeks; and her eyebrows8, which were extraordinarily9 thick and long, and quite gray, bushy and bristling10, looked exactly like a pair of mustaches stuck on there by mistake.
She limped, not as lame11 people generally do, but like a ship at anchor. When she planted her great, bony, swerving12 body on her sound leg, she seemed to be preparing to mount some enormous wave, and then suddenly she dipped as if to disappear in an abyss, and buried herself in the ground. Her walk reminded one of a storm, as she swayed about, and her head, which was always covered with an enormous white cap, whose ribbons fluttered down her back, seemed to traverse the horizon from north to south and from south to north, at each step.
I adored Mother Clochette. As soon as I was up I went into the linen-room where I found her installed at work, with a foot-warmer under her feet. As soon as I arrived, she made me take the foot-warmer and sit upon it, so that I might not catch cold in that large, chilly13 room under the roof.
“That draws the blood from your throat,” she said to me.
She told me stories, whilst mending the linen with her long crooked14 nimble fingers; her eyes behind her magnifying spectacles, for age had impaired15 her sight, appeared enormous to me, strangely profound, double.
She had, as far as I can remember the things which she told me and by which my childish heart was moved, the large heart of a poor woman. She told me what had happened in the village, how a cow had escaped from the cow-house and had been found the next morning in front of Prosper16 Malet's windmill, looking at the sails turning, or about a hen's egg which had been found in the church belfry without any one being able to understand what creature had been there to lay it, or the story of Jean-Jean Pila's dog, who had been ten leagues to bring back his master's breeches which a tramp had stolen whilst they were hanging up to dry out of doors, after he had been in the rain. She told me these simple adventures in such a manner, that in my mind they assumed the proportions of never-to-be-forgotten dramas, of grand and mysterious poems; and the ingenious stories invented by the poets which my mother told me in the evening, had none of the flavor, none of the breadth or vigor17 of the peasant woman's narratives18.
Well, one Tuesday, when I had spent all the morning in listening to Mother Clochette, I wanted to go upstairs to her again during the day after picking hazelnuts with the manservant in the wood behind the farm. I remember it all as clearly as what happened only yesterday.
On opening the door of the linen-room, I saw the old seamstress lying on the ground by the side of her chair, with her face to the ground and her arms stretched out, but still holding her needle in one hand and one of my shirts in the other. One of her legs in a blue stocking, the longer one, no doubt, was extended under her chair, and her spectacles glistened19 against the wall, as they had rolled away from her.
I ran away uttering shrill20 cries. They all came running, and in a few minutes I was told that Mother Clochette was dead.
I cannot describe the profound,
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