He had probably died of congestion. But she believed that he had
been poisoned, and although she had no proofs whatever, her
suspicion rested on Fabu.

She wept so sorely that her mistress said: "Why don't you have him
stuffed?"

She asked the advice of the chemist, who had always been kind to
the bird.

He wrote to Havre for her. A certain man named Fellacher consented
to do the work. But, as the diligence driver often lost parcels
entrusted to him, Félicité resolved to take her pet to Honfleur
herself.

Leafless apple-trees lined the edges of the road. The ditches were
covered with ice. The dogs on the neighbouring farms barked; and
Félicité, with her hands beneath her cape, her little black sabots
and her basket, trotted along nimbly in the middle of the
sidewalk. She crossed the forest, passed by the Haut-Chêne and
reached Saint-Gatien.

Behind her, in a cloud of dust and impelled by the steep incline,
a mail-coach drawn by galloping horses advanced like a whirlwind.
When he saw a woman in the middle of the road, who did not get out
of the way, the driver stood up in his seat and shouted to her and
so did the postilion, while the four horses, which he could not
hold back, accelerated their pace; the two leaders were almost
upon her; with a jerk of the reins he threw them to one side, but,
furious at the incident, he lifted his big whip and lashed her