Felicite
and Madame Aubain also took out the skirts, the handkerchiefs, and the
stockings and spread them on the beds, before putting them away again.
The sun fell on the piteous things, disclosing their spots and the
creases formed by the motions of the body. The atmosphere was warm and
blue, and a blackbird trilled in the garden; everything seemed to live
in happiness. They found a little hat of soft brown plush, but it was
entirely moth-eaten. Felicite asked for it. Their eyes met and filled
with tears; at last the mistress opened her arms and the servant threw
herself against her breast and they hugged each other and giving vent to
their grief in a kiss which equalised them for a moment.
It was the first time that this had ever happened, for Madame Aubain was
not of an expansive nature. Felicite was as grateful for it as if it had
been some favour, and thenceforth loved her with animal-like devotion
and a religious veneration.
Her kind-heartedness developed. When she heard the drums of a marching
regiment passing through the street, she would stand in the doorway
with a jug of cider and give the soldiers a drink.
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