s it was mentioned to her, she became silent, she who was so fond of talking.
The most curious were baffled by her silence and the most tenacious by her obstinacy.
Thus it furnished a subject of comment for all those who were unoccupied or bored in the convent. What could that treasure of the centenarian be, which was so precious and so secret?
Some holy book, no doubt?
Some unique chaplet? Some authentic relic?
They lost themselves in conjectures. When the poor old woman died, they rushed to her cupboard more hastily than was fitting, perhaps, and opened it.
They found the object beneath a triple linen cloth, like some consecrated paten. It was a Faenza platter representing little Loves flitting away pursued by apothecary lads armed with enormous syringes. The chase abounds in grimaces and in comical postures.
One of the charming little Loves is already fairly spitted.
He is resisting, fluttering his tiny wings, and still making an effort to fly, but the dancer is laughing with a satanical air.
Moral:
Love conquered by the colic.
This platter, which is very curious, and which had, possibly, the honor of furnishing Moliere with an idea, was still in existence in September, 1845; it was for sale by a bric-a-brac merchant in the Boulevard Beaumarchais.
This good old woman would not receive any visits from outside because, said she, the parlor is too gloomy.