But she believed that he had been poisoned, and although she had no proofs whatever, her suspicion rested on Fabu.
She wept so sorely that her mistress said: "Why don't you have him stuffed ?" She asked the advice of the chemist, who had always been kind to the bird.
He wrote to Havre for her.

A certain man named Fellacher consented to do the work.

But, as the diligence driver often lost parcels entrusted to him, Felicite resolved to take her pet to Honfleur herself.
Leafless apple-trees lined the edges of the road.

The ditches were covered with ice.

The dogs on the neighbouring farms barked; and Felicite, with her hands beneath her cape, her little black sabots and her basket, trotted along nimbly in the middle of the sidewalk.