Then she went to get her apples, and, in order not to injure the tree with a pole, she climbed up into it by a ladder. She chose the fruit with care, only taking the ripe ones, and gathering them in her apron.
A voice called from the road:
“Hey, Madame Chicot!”
She turned round. It was a neighbor, Osime Favet, the mayor, on his way to fertilize his fields, seated on the manure-wagon, with his feet hanging over the side. She turned round and answered:
“What can I do for you, Maitre Osime?”
“And how is the father?”
She cried:
“He is as good as dead. The funeral is Saturday at seven, because there's lots of work to be done.”
The neighbor answered:
“So! Good luck to you! Take care of yourself.”