“He might find the same thing happening in many other villages,” said Randolphe, stroking the thin cheeks of his boy Robin. “Look here!” showing the boy’s arm. “Is this an arm that can work or fight as a Frenchman’s should do, when my boy is a man?”
“Things may be different when that boy is a man,” said the smoker, between two whiffs of his pipe.
“How? Where? When? Why? Is anything going to be done for the poor?” asked Randolphe and his family, within and without doors.
“I don’t know when and how: but I think you need not ask why, if you live some days of the week upon boiled nettles, as many of your neighbours do. Those that have looked into the matter say that the country people (they who really do the work of the land) possess only one-third of the country, and yet pay three-fourths of the taxes. One does not see why this should go on, when once they choose that it shall not: and many think that they won’t choose it much longer.”
“And then something will be done for the poor?” said the hostess, coming to the door.
“Certainly; unless the rich do something for the poor first; which would be their wisest way.”
“But if the rich should not choose to do anything for us?” said Robin.
“Then they must look to themselves.”
“And what will happen to them? What will happen to the Dauphiness?”
“Oh, poor lady! There is no saying that. She knows little of what the French people are suffering, and nothing of what they are thinking. How should she? What notion should she have of poverty and the poor, when she is now buying, out of her allowance, a pair of ear-rings that cost 360,000 francs?”