He had probably
died of congestion. But she believed that he had been poisoned, and
although she had no proofs whatever, her suspicion rested on Fabu.
She wept so sorely that her mistress said: "Why don't you have him
stuffed?"
She asked the advice of the chemist, who had always been kind to the
bird.
He wrote to Havre for her. A certain man named Fellacher consented to do
the work. But, as the diligence driver often lost parcels entrusted to
him, Felicite resolved to take her pet to Honfleur herself.
Leafless apple-trees lined the edges of the road. The ditches were
covered with ice. The dogs on the neighbouring farms barked; and
Felicite, with her hands beneath her cape, her little black sabots and
her basket, trotted along nimbly in the middle of the sidewalk. She
crossed the forest, passed by the Haut-Chene, and reached Saint-Gatien.
Behind her, in a cloud of dust and impelled by the steep incline, a
mail-coach drawn by galloping horses advanced like a whirlwind.
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