shrugs. And, after all, a woman seems the quickest thing forgotten
when once the important affairs of life come to men for consideration.

It might have been ten years according to some calculations, or ten
eternities,--the heart and the almanac never agree about time,--but
one morning old Champigny (they used to call him Champignon) was
walking along his levee front, calculating how soon the water would
come over, and drown him out, as the Louisianians say. It was before a
seven-o'clock breakfast, cold, wet, rainy, and discouraging. The road
was knee-deep in mud, and so broken up with hauling, that it was like
walking upon waves to get over it. A shower poured down. Old Champigny
was hurrying in when he saw a figure approaching. He had to stop to
look at it, for it was worth while. The head was hidden by a green
barege veil, which the showers had plentifully besprinkled with dew; a
tall, thin figure. Figure! No; not even could it be called a figure:
straight up and down, like a finger or a post; high-shouldered, and
a step--a step like a plow-man's. No umbrella; no--nothing more, in
fact. It does not sound so peculiar as when first related--something
must be forgotten. The feet--oh, yes, the feet--they were like
waffle-irons, or frying-pans, or anything of that shape.

Old Champigny did not care for women--he never had; they simply did
not exist for him in the order of nature. He had been married once,
it is true, about a half century before; but that was not reckoned
against the existence of his prejudice, because he was _célibataire_
to his finger-tips, as any one could see a mile away. But that woman
_intrigué'd_ him.

He had no servant to inquire from. He performed all of his own
domestic work in the wretched little cabin that replaced his old home.