In the butcher's shop Haidee found a number of villagers squabbling over beef-bones, and not a sign of lamb anywhere. The truth was that every portion of the one lamb killed early in the week had been sold, and though there were still one or two customers in need of First Communion lamb, Mother Durand knew better than to offer any of the freshly-killed beast that hung in the back shed. Peasants are well aware that freshly-killed meat should not be cut too early or it will be full of air, soft, flabby, and never tender. Mother Durand, under her calm exterior, was furiously angry with her man for having delayed the killing until now--after to-day there would be no demand for anything but beef-bones and veal until the summer visitors began to arrive. The young American mademoiselle asking guilelessly for lamb was a godsend. Waiting until the last villager had gone from the shop so that there would be no adverse comment on what she meant to do, she turned ingratiatingly to Haidee.
"But certainly, mademoiselle ... there is none in the shop ... but outside I have a lamb that is superbe ... just the thing for a première communion ... it is not for every one I would cut that lamb, but for such customers as you and your belle maman there is nothing I would not do." She returned presently from the back shed. "There, mademoiselle--a beautiful shoulder. Six francs."
Haidee was horrified at the price. Their dinner meat usually cost about one franc twenty, and she knew that there was much to be accomplished with Val's last twenty-franc piece.
"Could n't you give me a smaller one, Madame Durand? ... and not so dear?"
"Ah, mademoiselle, you should have said to me before that you wanted it small. It is cut now ... and what would I do with the pieces from it? Do you think I could sell them? But no."
So Haidee took the shoulder, and returned home with it tucked under her arm. On arrival as it happened old veuve Michel was in the kitchen with Val, having just brought home some odds and ends of family washing.
"What!" she cried, on seeing the lamb. "A shoulder of freshly-killed lamb, full of air and bubbles ... cut off the poor nice lamb while it had yet the hot life in it! Shame on the wretched woman Durand ... to take advantage thus of poor innocent Americans! ... Shame! But then every one knows how she treated her poor daughter who wanted to be a nun. Madame, the stones in the street are not more wicked than that woman Amélie Durand!"
Val, much disturbed by these sayings, examined the shoulder of mutton. Certainly it was very bubbly looking: warm too. She remembered now hearing the cook in New York storm over a piece of freshly-killed meat, declaring that it had been cut too soon and was not fit to eat.
"How ought I to cook it to make the best of it?" she inquired in dismay.
"Cook it!" cried Widow Michel, scarlet in the face from indignation combined with the effects of her afternoon bottle of cognac. "No good to cook it. Better to pluck a rock from the cliff-side and cook it."