tal's surprise she went on: "You must have seen
for yourself that excepting a little plot of ground where the gardener
plants a few carrots and cabbages for the Bishop's table, the whole of
the garden is left to run wild; it is sheer waste and of no use to
anybody. Now instead of buying vegetables, I mean to grow some, since
Monseigneur gives me leave to turn over his ground, and by the same
token I will give some to your housekeeper."

"Thank you. Then do you understand gardening?"

"I? Why, am I not a peasant? I have lived in the country all my life,
and a kitchen garden is just my business! Besides, if I were in
difficulties, would not my Friends Above come to advise me?"

"You are a wonderful woman, Madame Bavoil," said Durtal, somewhat
disconcerted in spite of himself by the answers of a cook who so calmly
asserted that she was on intimate terms with the divine Beyond.

CHAPTER V.

It rained without ceasing. Durtal breakfasted under the assiduous
watchfulness of his servant, Madame Mesurat. She was one of those women
whose stalwart build and masculine presence would allow of their
dressing in men's clothes without attracting attention. She had a
pear-shaped head, cheeks that hung flabby as if they had been emptied of
air, a pompous nose that drooped till it very nearly touched a
projecting underlip like a bracket, giving her an expression of
determined contempt which she very certainly had never felt. In short,
she suggested the absurd idea of a solemn, gawky Marlborough disguised
as a cook.

She served unvarying meats with inglorious sauces; and as soon as the
dish was on the table she stood at attention, waiting to know whether it
was good. She was imposing and devoted--quite insufferable. Durtal, on
edge with irritation, found it all he could do not to dismiss her to the
kitchen, and finally buried his nose in a book that he might not have to
answer her, might not see her.

This day, provoked by his silence, Madame Mesurat lifted the window
curtain, and for the sake of saying something, exclaimed,--

"Good heavens! What weather! Impossible!"

And in fact the sky offered no hope of consolation. It was all in tears.
The rain fell in uninterrupted streams, unwinding endless skeins of
water. The Cathedral was standing in a pool of mud lashed into leaping
drops by the falling torrent, and the two spires looked drawn together,
almost close, linked by loose threads of water. This indeed was the
preva