“To beg his bread?”
“Yes, madame; I say it without shame, for in all our misfortunes there was no blame to my father or myself.”
“But you do not speak of your mother?”
“Well, with the same frankness with which I told you just now that I blessed God for taking my father, I complain that He left me my mother.”
The two ladies looked at each other, almost shuddering at these strange words.
“Would it be indiscreet, madame, to ask you for a more detailed account of your misfortunes?”
“The indiscretion, madame, would be in me, if I fatigued you with such a long catalogue of woes.”
“Speak, madame,” said the elder lady, so commandingly, that her companion looked at her, as if to warn her to be more guarded. Indeed, Madame de la Motte had been struck with this imperious accent, and stared at her with some astonishment.
“I listen, madame,” she then said, in a more gentle tone; “if you will be good enough to inform us what we ask.”
Her companion saw her shiver as she spoke, and fearing she felt cold, pushed towards her a rug, on which to place her feet, and which she had discovered under one of the chairs.