There was something about her, as she thus ran about among paths, where her outline appeared perfectly black, waving her angular arms, and with her fichu all in rags, that resembled a bat.

When she had finished, Father Mabeuf approached her with tears in his eyes, and laid his hand on her brow.

“God will bless you,” said he, “you are an angel since you take care of the flowers.”

“No,” she replied. “I am the devil, but that’s all the same to me.”

The old man exclaimed, without either waiting for or hearing her response:⁠—

“What a pity that I am so unhappy and so poor, and that I can do nothing for you!”

“You can do something,” said she.

“What?”