"Well, no one will find himself wronged by me, I'm sure, when I'm taken away. My will has been made long ago. Every one is remembered, and I should think I was acting very wrongly if I showed an unfair preference for any one. None of my children are forgotten, as they will see for themselves one of these days."
She recited this formula daily to one or another member of her family, and she made a point of repeating it by the death-bed of her relatives. Every time she delivered herself of it, she chuckled in secret at the thought of that famous will of hers which would set the whole family by the ears when she was gone. She had been careful that it should not contain a single clause that was not pregnant with a law-suit.
"What a pity it is," she added, "that one can't take one's property with one! But, since one can't, others must needs have the enjoyment of it."
La Frimat now returned, sat down at the other side of the table, opposite to La Grande, and also began to knit. So the afternoon glided away. The two old women sat quietly gossipping with each other, while Jean, who could not settle in any one place, kept walking up and down, perpetually leaving the room and then returning in a state of feverish restlessness. The doctor' had said that there was nothing to be done, and so they did nothing.
At last, La Frimat began expressing her regret that Sourdeau, the bone-setter at Bazoches, who was equally expert in the treatment of wounds, had not been sent for. He just said a few words and then breathed over his patients, and then the wounds closed up at once.
"Oh, he's a splendid fellow!" exclaimed La Grande in a respectful way. "It was he who put the Lorillon's breast-bone right. Old Lorillon's breast-bone, you know, fell out of its place, and hung down and pressed so heavily on his stomach that he almost died from exhaustion. Then, to make matters worse, the old woman caught the dreadful complaint as well: for, as you know, it is contagious. Presently they all had it, the daughter, the son-in-law, and their three children. They would certainly all have died of it if they had not sent for Sourdeau, who put everything right again by just rubbing their bellies with a tortoise-shell comb."
The other old woman confirmed every detail of this story with a wag of the head. It was all well known, and there was no doubt about it. Then she herself adduced another fact in support of Sourdeau's skill.
"It was Sourdeau, too, who cured the Budin's little girl of fever by just cutting a live pigeon in two and applying it to her head."
Then she turned to Jean, who was standing quite dazed by the bedside.
"If I were you," she said, "I should send for him. It's perhaps not too late, even now."