He consented, and it was she who really directed the arrangements. Having climbed upon a pair of steps she bullied the girls as they came up to her in turn with their leafy contributions. ‘Not so fast, now! You must give me time to fix the boughs. We can’t have all these bundles coming down on his reverence’s head---- Come on, Babet, it’s your turn. What’s the good of staring at me like that with your big eyes? Fine rosemary yours is, my word! as yellow as a thistle. You next, La Rousse. Ah, well, that is splendid laurel! You got that out of your field at Croix-Verte, I know.’ The big girls laid their branches on the altar, which they kissed; and there they lingered for a while, handing up the greenery to La Teuse. The sly look of devotion they had assumed on stepping on to the altar steps was quickly set aside, and soon they were laughing, digging each other with their knees, swaying their hips against the altar’s edge, and thrusting their bosoms against the tabernacle itself. Over them the tall Virgin in gilded plaster bent her tinted face, and smiled with her rosy lips upon the naked Jesus she bore upon her left arm. ‘That’s it, Lisa!’ cried La Teuse; ‘why don’t you sit on the altar while you’re about it? Just pull your petticoats straight, will you? Aren’t you ashamed of behaving like that?--If any one of you lolls about I’ll lay her boughs across her face.--Can’t you hand me the things quietly?’ Then turning round, she asked: ‘Do you like it, sir? Do you think it will do?’ She had converted the space behind the Virgin’s statue into a verdant niche, whence leafy sprays projected on either side, forming a bower, and drooping over in front like palm leaves. The priest expressed his approval, but ventured to remark: ‘I think there ought to be a cluster of more delicate foliage up above.’ ‘No doubt,’ grumbled La Teuse. ‘But they only bring me laurel and rosemary--I should like to know who has brought an olive branch. Not one, you bet! They are afraid of losing a single olive, the heathens!’ At this, however, Catherine came up laden with an enormous olive bough which completely hid her. ‘Oh, you’ve got some, you minx!’ continued the old servant. ‘Of course,’ one of the other girls exclaimed, ‘she stole it. I saw Vincent breaking it off while she kept a look-out.’ But Catherine flew into a rage and swore it was not true. She turned, and thrusting her auburn head through the greenery, which she still tightly held, she started lying with marvellous assurance, inventing quite a long story to prove that the olive bough was really hers. ‘Besides,’ she added, ‘all the trees belong to the Blessed Virgin.’