For Jacintha was cackling very loud, and dismissing with ignominy two beggars, male and female.
She was industry personified, and had no sympathy with mendicity. In vain the couple protested, Heaven knows with what truth, that they were not beggars, but mechanics out of work. “March! tramp!” was Jacintha’s least word. She added, giving the rein to her imagination, “I’ll loose the dog.” The man moved away, the woman turned appealingly to Edouard. He and Josephine came towards the group. She had got a sort of large hood, and in that hood she carried an infant on her shoulders. Josephine inspected it. “It looks sickly, poor little thing,” said she.
“What can you expect, young lady?” said the woman. “Its mother had to rise and go about when she ought to have been in her bed, and now she has not enough to give it.”
“Oh, dear!” cried Josephine. “Jacintha, give them some food and a nice bottle of wine.”
“That I will,” cried Jacintha, changing her tone with courtier-like alacrity. “I did not see she was nursing.”
Josephine put a franc into the infant’s hand; the little fingers closed on it with that instinct of appropriation, which is our first and often our last sentiment. Josephine smiled lovingly on the child, and the child seeing that gave a small crow.
“Bless it,” said Josephine, and thereupon her lovely head reared itself like a snake’s, and then darted down on the child; and the young noble kissed the beggar’s brat as if she would eat it.
This won the mother’s heart more than even the gifts.
“Blessings on you, my lady!” she cried. “I pray the Lord not to forget this when a woman’s trouble comes on you in your turn! It is a small child, mademoiselle, but it is not an unhealthy one. See.” Inspection was offered, and eagerly accepted.
Edouard stood looking on at some distance in amazement, mingled with disgust.