"Ah! it was a long
time ago that I first had the honor of seeing you here! You remember La
Couteau, don't you? She was always complaining, was she not? But she is
very well pleased now; she and her husband have retired to a pretty
little house of their own, with some little savings which they live on
very quietly. She is no longer young, but she has buried a good many in
her time, and she'll bury more before she has finished! For instance,
Madame Menoux--you must surely remember Madame Menoux, the little
haberdasher close by--well, there was a woman now who never had any luck!
She lost her second child, and she lost that big fellow, her husband,
whom she was so fond of, and she herself died of grief six months
afterwards. I did at one time think of taking her to Rougemont, where the
air is so good for one's health. There are old folks of ninety living
there. Take La Couteau, for instance, she will live as long as she likes!
Oh! yes, it is a very pleasant part indeed, a perfect paradise."
At these words the abominable Rougemont, the bloody Rougemont, arose
before Mathieu's eyes, rearing its peaceful steeple above the low plain,
with its cemetery paved with little Parisians, where wild flowers bloomed
and hid the victims of so many murders.
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