JustthenawomandressedinherSundayclothes，——forthebellswerepealingfromtheclocktowerandcallingtheinhabitantstomass，——awomanaboutthirty-sixyearsofagecameuptothepostmaster。
“Well，cousin，“shesaid，“youwouldn’tbelieveme——UncleiswithUrsulaintheGrand’Rue，andtheyaregoingtomass。“
Inspiteofthemodernpoeticcanonsastolocalcolor，itisquiteimpossibletopushrealismsofarastorepeatthehorribleblasphemymingledwithoathswhichthisnews，apparentlysounexciting，broughtfromthehugemouthofMinoret-Levrault；hisshrillvoicegrewsibilant，andhisfacetookontheappearanceofwhatpeopleoddlyenoughcallasunstroke。
“Isthattrue？“heasked，afterthefirstexplosionofhiswrathwasover。
Thepostilionsbowedtotheirmasterastheyandtheirhorsespassedhim，butheseemedtoneitherseenorhearthem。Insteadofwaitingforhisson，Minoret-LevraulthurrieduptotheGrand’Ruewithhiscousin。