Madeleine was feeling restless, so she asked Berthe to come and sit by her bed and talk to her.
‘Tell me a story,’ she commanded, and Berthe delightedly launched forth on her favourite theme, that of Madeleine’s resemblance to her youngest brother.
‘Oh, he often comes to me and says, “Tell me a story, Berthe,” like that, “tell me a story, Berthe,” and I’ll say, “Do you think I have nothing better to do, sir, than tell you stories. Off you go and dig cabbages;” and he’ll say, with a bow, “Dig them yourself, Madame”—oh, he’s malin, ever pat with an answer; he is like Monsieur Jacques in that way. One day——’
‘Please tell me a story,’ Madeleine persisted. ‘Tell me the one about Nausicaa.’
‘Ah! that was the one that came back to me when Mademoiselle turned with such zeal to housewifery!’ and she chuckled delightedly.
‘Tell it to me!’
‘Well, it was a pretty tale my grandmother used to tell; she heard it from her grandmother, who had been tire-woman to a great lady in the reign of good King Francis.’
‘Begin the tale,’ commanded Madeleine firmly.
‘Oh, Mademoiselle will have her own way—just like Albert,’ winked Berthe, and began,—
‘Once upon a time, hundreds of years ago, there lived a rich farmer near Marseilles. My grandmother was wont to say he was a king, but that cannot have been, for, as you will see, his daughter did use to do her own washing. Mademoiselle hates housework, doesn’t she? I can see you are ill-pleased when Madame talks of a ménage of your own——’