"Good sir, save us! we perish!"
"What is the matter?" said he, starting.
"We are fugitives from Nismes; we were beaten, we were burnt, we were pillaged."
"My poor good woman, there are numbers in like case."
"But we starve," said she, bursting into tears. "My aged mother and my little ones."
"I am very sorry for you, but I am a poor man myself—here, take this trifle."
"Alas, we cannot eat money!" in a tone of such mournful reproach.
"No, true; it will buy a little bread—but there are no shops. Jean," in a lower voice to me, "I've a loaf in the cart, shall we part with it?"
"Give it to her by all means," said I.
Before he did so, he said to her, "True, you cannot eat money, but money will buy you bread in Nismes. Why not return there? The authorities are welcoming all that conform."