It was a funny anecdote of long standing in the family. But, as his mother still remained silent, paralyzed by her emotion, he undertook himself to tell the story, laughing as he did so at the memorable incident. The father, who knew it by heart brightened at the opening words of the narrative; his wife soon followed his example; and the negress herself, when he reached the drollest part of it, suddenly gave vent to a laugh, such a loud, rolling torrent of laughter that the horse, becoming excited, broke into a gallop for a while. This served to cement their acquaintance. They all began to chat. They had scarcely reached the house and had all alighted, when Antoine conducted his sweetheart to a room, so that she might take off her dress, to avoid staining it, as she was going to prepare a nice dish, intended to win the old people's affections through their stomachs. He drew his parents outside the house, and, with beating heart, asked: “Well, what do you say now?” The father said nothing. The mother, less timid, exclaimed: “She is too black. No, indeed, this is too much for me. It turns my blood.” “You will get used to it,” said Antoine. “Perhaps so, but not at first.” They went into the house, where the good woman was somewhat affected at the spectacle of the negress engaged in cooking. She at once proceeded to assist her, with petticoats tucked up, active in spite of her age. The meal was an excellent one, very long, very enjoyable. When they were taking a turn after dinner, Antoine took his father aside. “Well, dad, what do you say about it?” The peasant took care never to compromise himself. “I have no opinion about it. Ask your mother.” So Antoine went back to his mother, and, detaining her behind the rest, said: “Well, mother, what do you think of her?” “My poor lad, she is really too black. If she were only a little less black, I would not go against you, but this is too much. One would think it was Satan!”