"What can you do against an irresistible calamity? The wisdom of man consists not in struggling with unhappiness, but in submitting himself to the will of Heaven."
"I am of your opinion," replied Mother Michel. "If I believed, like you, in the death of Moumouth, I would resign myself without a murmur. But I have the idea that he still lives; I picture him running through the streets, the victim of ill treatment, with saucepans, may be"—
"Go to, Mother Michel, you deceive yourself; Moumouth is dead, otherwise he would have come back to us."
"Something tells me that he is still in this world, and if Madame the Countess wishes to have tidings of him, she has only to address herself"—
"To whom?"
"To our neighbor, Madame Bradamor, that celebrated fortune-teller, who predicts the future, removes freckles, reads in the Book of Destinies, and charms away the toothache."
"Fie, Mother Michel! how can you, a sensible woman, have any confidence in the juggling of an adventuress?"
"But, madame, I am not alone; the most distinguished people go to Madame Bradamor; she is more learned and less dear than her rivals, and asks only ten crowns to make you behold the devil Astaroth."
"Enough, for pity’s sake!" responded the Countess, dryly.
Mother Michel remained silent; but she had made up her mind, and, the first time she had a moment of liberty, she ran to the house of the necromancer.