Le Docteur Simon was hard at work among his hollyhocks when Père Barthélemy leaned over the gate. “Ha!” said he, pointing a trowel at his visitor. “I can see where you have been! You have been with our Blanchisseuse Dorée.”
“Yes,” said the curé, quietly, “and I have come to ask you—is there anything the matter with that villainous husband of hers?”
“I do not know,” said Simon, gruffly, making the earth fly, like a digging terrier.
“There were bruises on her arm again,” said Père Barthélemy, slowly. “I have thought much of that matter, my friend.”
“So have I.” The doctor spoke from a shower of flying earth. “And I will tell you this. The brute will die, if he dies at all, from eating, and lying still. Unless by the judgment of God. But that is your department.”
“Our poor little Golden Washerwoman! How long is she to endure?”
“Till her heart breaks. You have all influence. Why do you not have the brute removed?”
“I have thought much, Simon. And I have thought—I have guessed—that it would not be for her happiness.”
“Ha!” said the doctor, again, with a look at the curé. “Ha. This Love!”
“Just so, my friend. We cannot meddle with it.”