CHAPTER III
THAT Sunday was a bright, sunny day. The sky was blue, the sun beamed festively.
The breeze was gently playful, running in ripples over the green fields spiked with yellow, or shaking the ears one by one as if to count them; and then it blew upward again to frolic among the trees.
The hedges had dressed themselves up in their new leaves. Flowers were showing their prettiest wide-open faces all round about. Even the poor little grasses by the wayside had prinked themselves—watch them straightening up on their stalks and trying to shine! And the birds were carolling like mad.
Madeleine walked slowly, holding Jo by the hand; from time to time she picked him up and carried him on her arm a little way. Lalie was trotting in front, with her curly hair whipping her shoulders.
A cuckoo was singing in a cherry tree at the turn of the road; Lalie stole up on tiptoe to try and see the bird, but he flew away as she came on and perched somewhere far away.
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo!"
The little girl turned round with shining eyes:
"Nêne! Do you hear that one? I believe I frightened him away!"
She babbled on, dancing in the sunshine:
"I'm happy! Come, Jo! Let's play! Come along, both of you!"
Jo scampered to his sister and made chorus with her, calling:
"Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Where are you, coo-coo?"
Madeleine watched them running ahead of her and thought them as handsome as the children of the rich.
She had put the new stockings on them and their little legs showed through. At the last moment she had sewed two double rows of pearl buttons on Jo's short little trousers; and on her arm she was carrying the smocks she had bought of the pedlar.
She, too, had dressed up. She had put on her Sunday skirt and her best silk apron. When there was a puff of wind, the bands of her muslin cap flipped about her face. She walked with her head held high and felt as happy as could be.
There were half a dozen children that day, visiting the cousin of the Little Pasture. Lalie and Jo were the prettiest among them. However hard it was for them, the women complimented Madeleine, who thereupon lifted her head the higher. They had given her a place at the end of the table, a little off from the others, because she was not one of the family. She took Jo on her lap and made him eat from her plate, saying:
"He's used to it; otherwise he wouldn't eat a thing."
She talked gaily, held up her end against the jesting of the men; and told the story of the Auvergne woman who had left her children.
The cousin asked if it was that woman's husband who had sold her the children's clothes.
"Not all of them," replied Madeleine, "but some."
The cousin pinched her mouth:
"I went out to his cart, too, but his prices were too high. We can't afford to throw away money, in this family!"
Madeleine wanted to laugh.
"She's always the same, this one!" she thought. "Did I ask her for the money to pay for this finery?— When I want money, I know where to look for it!"
All through the day this thought gladdened her heart. And even that evening, on the way back to the Moulinettes, she mumbled to herself:
"I've got money of my own, I have! If it suits me to waste it, what of it?— If it's my pleasure?— I've got two hundred and fifty francs in the savings bank.— What are they for, I'd like to know, these two hundred and fifty francs? What did I save them for!"