“And little wrinkles all over her face, and her eyes screwed up, and red patches on her cheeks, like old Mother Mathurine, down in the village,” said Joseph. “They do say, you know, that old Mathurine is nearly a thousand years old,” and Joseph nodded his head sagaciously.
“Joseph!” exclaimed Marie, “how can you tell such stories? Nobody is a thousand!”
“Well, then, it is a hundred,—I meant to say a hundred,” said Joseph. “I always forget which is the most—a thousand or a hundred,” for poor Joseph was only seven.
“What things she must remember!” said Edmée. “Fancy, Pierre, a hundred years ago! Perhaps she remembers the little girl. Oh, Pierre, do let us ask mother to tell us the story to-morrow!”
“Yes,” Pierre agreed, “I should very much like to hear it. We’ll ask her to-night, Edmée.”
And just then the sound of their father’s voice, as he crossed the farmyard on his way into the house, made them hasten to pick up the stray leaves and flowers which had fallen from the wreaths, and to put the chairs and all back in their places, so as to leave the room in perfect order for to-morrow.
That evening, when the little ones were in bed, Pierre, Edmée, and Marie lingered a moment when they were going to say good-night to their parents.
“What is it, my dears?” said their mother, for she saw there was something they wanted to ask.
“Mother,” said Pierre, “you know you are always very good to us on your birthday; we want to ask you a favour. Will you to-morrow tell us the story of the little picture in the parlour?”
“You said you would when we were older,” said Edmée, persuasively.