it from Pont-l'Eveque? In order to learn these things, she questioned
Monsieur Bourais. He reached for his map and began some explanations
concerning longitudes, and smiled with superiority at Felicite's
bewilderment. At last, he took a pencil and pointed out an imperceptible
black point in the scallops of an oval blotch, adding: "There it is."
She bent over the map; the maze of coloured lines hurt her eyes without
enlightening her; and when Bourais asked her what puzzled her, she
requested him to show her the house Victor lived in. Bourais threw
up his hands, sneezed, and then laughed uproariously; such ignorance
delighted his soul; but Felicite failed to understand the cause of his
mirth, she whose intelligence was so limited that she perhaps expected
to see even the picture of her nephew!

It was two weeks later that Liebard came into the kitchen at
market-time, and handed her a letter from her brother-in-law. As neither
of them could read, she called upon her mistress.

Madame Aubain, who was counting the stitches of her knitting, laid her
work down beside her, opened the letter, started, and in a low tone
and with a searching look said: "They tell you of a--misfortune. Your
nephew--"

He had died. The letter told nothing more.

Felicite dropped on a chair, leaned her head against the back, and
closed her lids; presently they grew pink. Then, with drooping head,
inert hands and staring eyes she repeated at intervals:

"Poor little chap! poor little chap!"