The plump, good-natured face of Father Anthony Alacoque wore a worried frown as he trudged through the fields from his parish church at Verosvres to the neighboring farm of Lhautecour. True, the crops were splendid in this year of Our Lord 1660, and he himself in excellent health. Parish finances were satisfactory, too. But things were far different at Lhautecour for his widowed sister-in-law, Madame Philiberte Alacoque, and her poor little invalid daughter Margaret.
“It’s a shame the way my own sisters are treating those two,” mumbled the priest, pausing for a moment to survey the fertile countryside. “A shame and a disgrace. Today I must give Benedicta and Catherine a good talking-to.”
But even as he neared Lhautecour and started purposefully toward the smaller of the two stone farmhouses, a woman’s shrill voice echoed angrily from the kitchen.
“Philiberte, you clumsy fool! You’ve broken another dish! What in heaven’s name is the matter with you?”
There was a moment’s silence, then a burst of uncontrolled sobbing.
“But I couldn’t help it, Benedicta! Truly I couldn’t …”
“That’s a likely story! You’ll go without your dinner for this, my fine lady. Mark my words. Now, clean up that mess at once, do you hear? At once!”
“But I don’t feel well—”
“Listen, stupid, if you don’t do what I say …”
There was another burst of tears. Then, after a moment: “All right, Benedicta, I’m sorry. I’ll pick up the pieces. Only please don’t be angry with me! It was all just an accident. Truly it was!”
Father Anthony sighed and shook his head. Poor Philiberte! Her lot in life had certainly changed for the worse since the death of her beloved Claude five years ago. Before that she had been undisputed mistress of Lhautecour, and Claude the best and most generous of husbands.
