She always
held the same stall in the same position on market days,--and she
sat under her red umbrella on a rough wooden bench, knitting
rapidly, now keeping an eye on her little lame son, coiled up in a
piece of matting beside her, and anon surveying her stock-in-trade
of ducks and geese and fowls, which were heaped on her counter,
their wrung necks drooping limply from the board, and their yellow
feet tied helplessly together and shining like bits of dull gold in
the warm light of the September sun. She listened with an impassive
countenance while Babette poured out her story of the great
Cardinal,--the Cardinal Felix Bonpre, whom people said was a saint,-
-how he had come unexpectedly to stay two nights at the Hotel
Poitiers,--how "petite maman" had declared he was so good that even
angels might visit him,--how kind and gentle and grand he seemed,--
"Yes," said Babette somewhat eagerly, "there was no doubt that he
LOOKED good,--and we have told him all about Fabien and he has
promised to bless him and ask Our Lord to cure his lameness."
"Well, and of what use is that, mignonne?" demanded Martine,
clicking her knitting-needles violently and stooping over her work
to wink away the sudden tears that had risen in her bold brown eyes
at Babette's enthusiastic desire to benefit her afflicted child.
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