f the head,
and an English word, murmured so low that I did not understand it, were
her only acknowledgments.

I ceased occupying myself with her, although she had disturbed my
thoughts.

At the end of three days, I knew as much about her as did Madame
Lecacheur herself.

She was called Miss Harriet. Seeking out a secluded village in which to
pass the summer, she had been attracted to Benouville, some six months
before, and did not seem disposed to quit it. She never spoke at table,
ate rapidly, reading all the while a small book, treating of some
protestant propaganda. She gave a copy of it to everybody. The cure
himself had received no less than four copies, conveyed by an urchin to
whom she had paid two sous' commission. She said sometimes to our
hostess, abruptly, without preparing her in the least for the
declaration:

"I love the Savior more than all; I admire him in all creation; I adore
him in all nature, I carry him always in my heart."

And she would immediately present the old woman with one of her
brochures which were destined to convert the universe.

In the village she was not liked. In fact, the schoolmaster had declared
that she was an atheist, and that a kind of reprobation weighed down on
her. The cure, who had been consulted by Madame Lecacheur, responded:

"She is a heretic, but God does not wish the death of the sinner, and I
believe her to be a person of pure morals."

These words, "Atheist," "Heretic," words which no one can precisely
define, threw doubts into some minds. It was asserted, however, that
this English woman was rich, and that she had passed her life in
traveling through every country in the world, because her family had
thrown her off. Why had her family thrown her off. Because of her
natural impiety?

She was, in fact, one of those people of exalted principles, one of
those opinionated puritans, of which England produces so many, one of
those good and insupportable old women who haunt the table d'hotes of
every hotel in Europe, who spoil Italy, impoison Switzerland, render the
charming cities of the Mediterranean uninhabitable, carry everywhere
their fantastic manias, their petrified vestal manners, their
indescribable toilettes and a certain odor of India rubber, which makes
one believe that at night they slip themselves into a case of that
material.

When I encounter one of these people some fine day in a hotel, I act
like the birds, who see a manakin in a field.