The Clock of Paradise

There are, presumably, no clocks in paradise. But if there were, I should imagine they would least resemble the factory punch clock—that scourge of the working class. Yet Mademoiselle Conlin, who rented old Monsieur Pavot’s place in the village last spring, was apparently of another mind.

The day she moved in, many of us found some excuse to pass by the cottage. Several weeks earlier word had gotten out that an American painter would be taking over the place. For some time crated canvases and other supplies had been arriving from the United States and were stacked for all to see in the single room that serves as the village post office. Betsy Conlin, the addressee, instantly became the principal subject of café gossip. That an American artist, whom some said enjoyed a considerable reputation, chose our village as a place to live and work was a source of pride, and not a little astonishment, to us all.

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