The diligence had started again. A tiny child, emaciated, in rags and with bare feet was running, cap in hand.
He was quite out of breath, and with a little panting, plaintive voice, he cried:
—Charity, kind Monsieur le Curé; charity, if you please.
—Go away, said Ridoux, go away, little rascal.
-My mother is very ill, said the little one: there is no bread at home.
—Wait, wait, I am going to point you out to the gendarmes.
The child stopped short, and sadly put on his cap again.
—Poor little fellow, said the dancer.
And she threw him the other half of the pie.
Ridoux thought he saw an offensive meaning in this quite spontaneous action, for he cried angrily: