"But," said the priest's servant, interrupting the hemp-dresser, "you are using an unsuitable word. A _throb_ does not express a moment, or a minute." "I tell you," retorted the hemp-dresser, "that a moment means nothing at all, and a minute is longer than it takes for an idea to rush into the head. I do not know how many millions of things you can think of in a minute, whereas you only need a throb of time to see and hear some one thing that is happening. I will say a little throb, if you please." "But a throb of time!" objected the old purist. "Ah! A throb of time! Does that worry you, Mother Monique? Does not everything go by throbs? Does not the sun, when you see it rising in the clouds of flames, and it makes your eyes blink to look at it? And the blood that beats in your veins; the church clock that sifts your time particle by particle, as a bolting-machine does the grain; your rosary when you tell it; your heart when the priest is delayed in coming home; the rain falling drop by drop, and the earth that turns round, as they say, like a mill-wheel? Neither you nor I feel the motion, the machine is too well oiled for that; but there must be some throbbing about it, since it accomplishes its period in twenty-four hours. As to that, too, we use the word _period_ when we speak of a certain length of time. So I say a _throb_, and I shall not unsay it. Do not interrupt me any more, unless you wish to tell the story." "No, no; your machine is too well oiled, too," answered the old woman. "Now let your tongue throb a little longer." [Illustration] CHAPTER XVII I WAS saying that François was tempted to speak to big old Catherine, and make himself known to her; but as in the same throb of time he was on the point of crying, he did not wish to behave like a fool, and did not even raise his head. As Catherine stooped over the ashes, she caught sight of his long legs and drew back in alarm. "What is all that?" whispered she to Mariette in the other corner of the room. "Where does that man come from?" "Do you ask me?" said the girl; "how should I know? I never saw him before. He came in here, as if he were at an inn, without a good-morning or good-evening. He asked after the health of my sister-in-law as if he were a near relation, or her heir; and there he is sitting by the fire, as you see. You may speak to him, for I do not care to do so. He may be a disreputable person." "What? Do you think he is crazy? He does not look wicked, as far as I can see, for he seems to be hiding his face." "Suppose he has come for some bad purpose?" "Do not be afraid, Mariette, for I am near to keep him in check. If he alarms you, I shall pour a kettle of boiling water over his legs, and throw an andiron at his head." While they were chattering thus, François was thinking of Madeleine.