It was an odd thing to say; as if a living woman were to call herself dead. People looked at her suspiciously.
And truly she was a startling object, trembling at every sound, wild-looking, shivering, with an animal-like fear; so terrified was she that she frightened other people. There is a certain weakness in the despair of a woman that is dreadful to witness. It is like looking upon a being against whom destiny has done its worst. But peasants are not analytical; they see nothing below the surface. One of them muttered, "She might be a spy."
"Keep still and go away," whispered the kind-hearted woman who had spoken to her before.
"I am doing no harm," replied Michelle Fléchard; "I am only looking for my children."
The kind woman winked at those who were starring at Michelle Fléchard, and touching her forehead with her finger, said,—
"She is a simpleton."
Then drawing her aside, she gave her a buckwheat cake.
Without even stopping to thank her, Michelle Fléchard began to devour the cake like one ravenous for food.
"You see, she eats just like an animal: she must be a simpleton;" and one by one the crowd gradually dispersed.
After she had eaten, Michelle Fléchard said to the peasant woman,—