"In the first place, my good woman—"
"My name is Lacombe, Madame Lacombe."
"Oh, very well, Madame Lacombe," said the stranger, with an air of mock deference, "I will tell you first who I am; afterwards I will tell you what I want. I am Commandant de la Miraudière." Then, touching his red ribbon, he added, "An old soldier as you see—ten campaigns—five wounds."
"That is nothing to me."
"I have many influential acquaintances in Paris, dukes, counts, and marquises."
"What do I care about that?"
"I keep a carriage, and spend at least twenty thousand francs a year."
"While my goddaughter and I starve on twenty sous a day, when she can earn them," said the sick woman, bitterly. "That is the way of the world, however."
"But it is not fair, my good Mother Lacombe," responded Commandant de la Miraudière, "it is not fair, and I have come here to put an end to such injustice."
"If you've come here to mock me, I wish you'd take yourself off," retorted the sick woman, sullenly.