“A beautiful one, my friend?” Père Barthélemy’s keen, brown eyes were very soft.
“An orchard is always beautiful, my father.”
“That is true. And how is your good husband to-day?”
The accustomed mist of grief dimmed the blue eyes of the Golden Washerwoman. “Ah, my father, he is no better; he will never be better. Ah, the poor child, how he suffers! All last night I was rubbing him with oils. But I mind nothing, if I can keep my strength and get him all he needs. He is much younger than I.” Her little, knotted hands shook upon the side of the tub. “I weep in the night when I think of it. What if I should die first, and leave him uncared for?”
Something, that might have been admiration, rippled over the priest’s calm, brown face. “I am not old, Mère Bezane. Will you trust me? While I live I will never forget him.”
“Ah, mon père!” Her hands shook still more. “That is good, that is of a heavenly kindness. But no one can understand him but I, no one does him justice, no one can guess his sufferings. And he speaks to me with such affection! Only this morning, he said, ‘Hola! my little, old cabbage,’ he said, ‘make me some good soup.’ The brave heart! Will you not see him?”
“I have no time, and I must not hinder you when you are so busy.”
“Yes, I am busy, thank the saints. It is a lady’s dress, my father, and the work upon it is wonderful.” Her fingers sought the fine lace, wistfully. “But before it came to me it received, not a washing, but a massacre.”
That evening, Monsieur le Curé went to see his friend, the doctor.
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.”