The next morning a bright winter sunshine made the snow dazzling.
The coach, finally harnessed, was waiting at the door, while
an army of white pigeons, ensconced in their white feathers, with
their pink eyes spotted in the middle with small black dots, were
walking leisurely between the legs of the six horses and picking
their food from the steaming manure which they were scattering.

The driver, wrapped up in his sheepskin cloak, was up on his seat,
smoking a pipe, and all the travelers, looking radiant, were having
provisions packed up for the rest of the trip.

Boule de Suif only had not come down. She appeared.

She seemed to be rather confused, bashful; shyly, she walked up to
her companions who, all with the same movement, turned away from
her as if they had not seen her. The Count, dignified, took his
wife by the arm and removed her from this impure contact.

The girl stood still, stupefied; then picking up all her courage
she accosted the manufacturer's wife with a--"Good morning,
Madame!"--humbly muttered. The other answered only with a short
and impertinent nod accompanied by a look of outraged virtue.
Everybody seemed to be busy and kept away from her as if she were
carrying some infectious germs in her skirt. Then they rushed up
to the coach, in which she entered last, without being helped by
anyone, and silently she took the seat she had occupied during the
final part of the journey.

They feigned not to see her, not to know her; but Mme. Loiseau,