Even now a small child in a black smock stood at his door,
waiting to fill his carafe with the black wine that had stained its
sides to such a beautiful violet hue.
"_Bonjour_, Christophe----"
"_Bonjour_, madame."
"You want wine?"
"_Oui_, madame."
"Then wait a moment and I will get it for thee."
Good Madame Chalumeau climbed down from her chair with a generous
display of fat, black woollen legs and unpinned her skirt.
"_Bon!_ M. Bouillard sleeps the fat morning, but I can get in, and you
will get a beating if you keep your excellent father waiting."
Taking the carafe, she passed under the archway that separated her house
from her neighbour's, and, her broad figure actually touching the wall
on either side, went to Bouillard's side-door and entered the house.
When she came out, the carafe full, Bouillard himself, fat and rosy with
sleep, was standing in his shop door. "Madame Bathilde, good day to you!
So you have again saved me from a commercial loss!" Desire Bouillard had
a witty way with him, his far shrewder neighbour thought--had thought
for years.
And then, quite without consciousness or amusement, they enacted the
little comedy that had been played by them every morning since poor
Madame Bouillard died.
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