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"Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap

of poor grass."

"Well?"

"Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?"

"Again, well?"

She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of

passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted

hands together with wild energy, and laid one of them on the

carriage-door--tenderly, caressingly, as if it had been a human

breast, and could be expected to feel the appealing touch.

"Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband

died of want; so many die of want; so many more will die of

want."

"Again, well? Can I feed them?"