"Germaine, take away poor Yollande, I am quite upset
by this trouble. You will bury her this evening, in a corner of
the kitchen-garden--deep enough to prevent any animal digging her
up. I leave it to you--do it carefully."

The girl bore away the fine hen in her apron. "How heavy she
is--it is a shame," and blowing apart the feathers, she saw the skin
underneath as yellow and plump as you could wish. Mechanically she
plucked a few feathers.

"After all," she said, "it isn't as though she had died--she was
drowned, quite a clean death; she's firm and healthy, only an hour
ago she was as strong and well as could be. Why shouldn't we eat
her?--We'll stew her because, though she is not old, she is not
exactly in her first youth--but there's a lot on her--with a
dressing of carrots and nutmeg, a bunch of herbs and a tomato,
with a calf's foot to make a good jelly, I believe she'd make a
lovely dinner."

Saying this she went on plucking Yollande. All the feathers, large
and small, gone, a little down was left, so to get rid of this she
lit an old newspaper and held her over it.

"Madame won't know anything and will enjoy her as much as we
shall. There's enough on her for two good meals."

Quite decided, instead of burying her, she wrapped the future stew
carefully in a perfectly clean cloth and put it on a shelf in the
kitchen out of the way of flies or accident.