MOTHER IS STARTLED by a thunderous thump, and Madeleine moans in her sleep. Looking up from her cauldron, she sees Papa, cheek flattened against the warm flank of a cow, arm extended and pointing placidly at their roof. Matilde has alighted there, and left droppings beside their chimney.
Mother bustles outside and gestures at Matilde with her spoon: Not today, Madame, please! Madeleine is sleeping.
The wings of the fat woman swell: I am conducting a scientific experiment. I should not be long.
She stoops down and sniffs her droppings. Roses! she announces. It smells like roses!
How wicked! Mother gasps and seeks shelter inside, her head protruding from the door so that she can remind Matilde: Only the saints' bones should smell like roses. You must have made a mistake.