"You did see it," Honorine would reply with a smile, "but you didn't notice it because it had no leaves."
"Do you think so? it may be true; and the garden too seems to me a hundred times lovelier than when we first came to see the house."
"For the very same reason."
"It certainly does make a great difference! What a pity it is, when you live in the country, that it isn't summer all the time!"
"If it were, we shouldn't have the pleasure of seeing the leaves grow, of seeing all nature come to life anew. Believe me, my dear girl, God has done well everything that He has done, and we are ungrateful when we murmur against the order He has established."
Père Ledrux came twice a week to look after the garden; that was quite as often as was necessary to keep the paths clean and to care for a small kitchen garden; as for the flowers, Agathe had taken it upon herself to tend them, and she did it very well, although the gardener declared that she knew nothing about it.
In short, the two women were enchanted with their new life; ennui had not once made its way into their abode, for they always found something to do which occupied their time; as a general rule, ennui visits only the slothful.
One morning, when Père Ledrux came to work at Madame Dalmont's, the peasant, after watching the hens for a long time, as usual, to see if they did not fight—their failure to do so always seemed to surprise him—went into the house, bowed to Honorine, who was breakfasting with Agathe, and said to her:
"I say, pardon, excuse me if I tell you this; but it's only so that you may know it, and then you can do as you choose; it's none of my business; I just came to tell you because sometimes folks are glad to know what other folks say about 'em."
"What's that, Père Ledrux? do you mean that people are talking about us?" said Honorine, who, no less than her friend, had felt strongly inclined to laugh at the gardener's long preamble.