"My tears belong to me," he said. "At least the Prussians have left us our tears."
"Are you the son of our gardener?" she asked.
To this ollendorfian query he nodded.
"Of Monsieur Menard?"
He nodded again.
"Alors, tu es Pierre?"
"Oui, je suis Pierre."
Mary produced an apple from the pocket of the hideous crimson pelisse she was wearing, and while she slowly munched it she regarded the boy with solemn curiosity. She had heard of young Pierre Menard who had run away from home to join the troops that were everywhere being recruited in the provinces to drive the Prussians out of France, and of how his father had found him in the market-place of Villefranche and brought him back, because he was too young to be a soldier.
"I'm sorry you could not go to be a soldier, Pierre," she said at last. "Would you like the other half of my apple?"
The boy accepted the proffered fruit with a surly grace, and presently he was confiding in Mary the tale of his wrecked ambition.