MME. COCHON TOUCHES DOWN upon the chemist's shop. Here, with a light wind blowing and the sun still caught behind the church, she pulls her diary from between her breasts. She presses the tip of a pencil to her tongue.
In the left-hand column, she notes:
At dawn, ate a plum. Bitter. Spit it out. Saw wagon on road to Saint Nicholas. Beehives in back. Madeleine slid out. Pangs of indigestion. Watched her walk into woods. Dress needing a good scrub.
For now, the right-hand column remains empty. Mme. Cochon is not her regular self today.
On the left, she continues:
Mid-morning, took some tea. Appetite returning. Clouds dispersed. Wanting jar of pear jam. No chance to ask. Children arrived with cart. Beauty in back.
It is the sight of this stranger, sitting in the pony cart, that prompts Mme. Cochon to write her first full sentence of the day.
She must drink vinegar to keep herself so slim.