“Yes. In another month it will all be arranged. Then no more Paris. The blessed, green country, peace, comfort. I want you to take care of me. I have been tired lately,—my heart. In another month,—say you’ll come, Margot?”
“It seems like a dream.”
“You’ll come?”
“Yes, yes! Would that it were to-morrow.”
The two mingled their tears of happiness and from that day spent their time in making plans for the future. The cottage was to have a great garden, with apple and pear trees. They would keep rabbits and chickens. How blessed the country seemed; how hateful the city!
“Margot,” said the Mère Tranquille one day. “Go out this afternoon and buy some clothes for the country. Here! take this bill of a hundred francs. Just think of it! In another week we’ll be there.”
The girl did think of it and it filled her with happiness. Yet all the time she was going the round of the big shops she had a curious foreboding that was realized as she returned to the shabby street. Something was wrong; the little bar was closed, and a crowd hung around the door.
“What’s the matter?”
A gendarme looked at her indifferently.
“It’s the patronne. She dropped dead quite suddenly. Her heart they say....”