h has lost its young. She was
breathless, dishevelled, frightful to see, and there was a fire in her
eyes which dried her tears. She stopped the passers-by and cried: 'My
daughter! my daughter! my pretty little daughter! If any one will give
me back my daughter, I will be his servant, the servant of his dog, and
he shall eat my heart if he will.' She met M. le Cure of Saint-Remy, and
said to him: 'Monsieur, I will till the earth with my finger-nails, but
give me back my child!' It was heartrending, Oudarde; and IL saw a very
hard man, Master Ponce Lacabre, the procurator, weep. Ah! poor mother!
In the evening she returned home. During her absence, a neighbor had
seen two gypsies ascend up to it with a bundle in their arms, then
descend again, after closing the door. After their departure, something
like the cries of a child were heard in Paquette's room. The mother,
burst into shrieks of laughter, ascended the stairs as though on wings,
and entered.--A frightful thing to tell, Oudarde! Instead of her pretty
little Agnes, so rosy and so fresh, who was a gift of the good God, a
sort of hideous little monster, lame, one-eyed, deformed, was crawling
and squalling over the floor. She hid her eyes in horror. 'Oh!' said
she, 'have the witches transformed my daughter into this horrible
animal?' They hastened to carry away the little club-foot; he would have
driven her mad. It was the monstrous child of some gypsy woman, who had
given herself to the devil. He appeared to be about four years old,
and talked a language which was no human tongue; there were words in it
which were impossible. La Chantefleurie flung herself upon the little
shoe, all that remained to her of all that she loved. She remained so
long motionless over it, mute, and without breath, that they thought she
was dead. Suddenly she trembled all over, covered her relic with furious
kisses, and burst out sobbing as though her heart were broken. I assure
you that we were all weeping also. She said: 'Oh, my little daughter! my
pretty little daughter! where art thou?'--and it wrung your very heart.
I weep still when I think of it. Our children are the marrow of our
bones, you see.---My poor Eustache! thou art so fair!--If you only knew
how nice he is! yesterday he said to me: 'I want to be a gendarme,
that I do.' Oh! my Eustache! if I were to lose thee!--All at once la
Chantefleurie rose, and set out to run through Reims, screaming: 'To the
gypsies' camp! to the gypsies