“We will try to find out through Monsieur Bongrand where this blow comes from,” replied the notary in a low voice whilst cautioning Massin to keep close.
“But what are you doing here, Minoret?” suddenly cried a little woman, bursting into the group in the middle of which the postmaster looked like a tower, “you do not know where Désiré is and there you stay planted on your legs gossiping when I thought you were on horseback!—Good-morning, mesdames and messieurs.”
This thin, pale, fair little woman, dressed in a white print gown with large chocolate-colored flowers, with an embroidered lace-trimmed cap, and wearing a little green shawl over her flat shoulders, was the postmistress who made the roughest postilions, servants and carters tremble; who kept the cash-box and the books, and managed the household with a finger and a glance, according to the popular expression of the neighbors. Like all true housewives, she wore no jewels. She did not believe, so she said, in tinsel and gewgaws; she pinned her faith to what was solid, and in spite of the fête, kept on her black apron, in the pockets of which jangled a bunch of keys. Her squeaking voice grated upon the drum of the ear. Notwithstanding the tender blue of her eyes, her severe glance was in obvious harmony with the thin lips of a pursed-up mouth, with a high, bulging and extremely imperious forehead. Sharp as was the glance of the eye, still sharper were the gestures and words. “Zélie, obliged to
