The fair white road goes quickly by outside, afraid to look in
frankly; and the entrance to the yard is narrow. Nor does a single
tree grow in it. If Bourcelles could have a slum, this would be it.
Why the old lady had left her cosy quarters in Les Glycines and
settled down in this unpleasant corner of the village was a puzzle to
everybody. With a shrug of the shoulders the problem was generally
left unsolved. Madame Jequier discussed it volubly a year ago when the
move took place, then dismissed it as one of those mysteries of old
people no one can understand. To the son-in-law and the daughter, who
got nearer the truth, it was a source of pain and sadness beyond their
means of relief. Mrs. 'Plume'--it was a play in French upon her real
name,--had been four years in the Pension, induced to come from a
lonely existence in Ireland by her daughter and throw in her lot with
the family, and at first had settled down comfortably enough. She was
over seventy, and possessed 80 pounds a year--a dainty, witty, amusing
Irish lady, with twinkling eyes and a pernicketty strong will, and a
brogue she transferred deliciously into her broken French. She loved
the children, yet did not win their love in return, because they stood
in awe of her sarcastic criticisms. Life had gone hardly with her; she
had lost her fortune and her children, all but this daughter, with
whose marriage she was keenly disappointed.
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