“They ask for alms on the road.”
“If they had any pluck, they would ask to be shot.—Come, Jacques, let’s not stay here; I haven’t any pity for those fellows.”
“I want to stay,” said Jacques with emotion; “I want to see them.”
The vehicle came forward slowly, and Jacques, impelled by a secret presentiment, drew very near, and took a few sous from his pocket. Soon the convicts were before him; they held out their crime-stained hands, imploring the pity of the passers-by. Jacques scrutinized them closely, and noticed one who did not imitate his companions in infamy, but who tried on the contrary to avoid the eyes of the crowd; but the villain with whom he was shackled was one of those who displayed the most effrontery; he jerked him violently, and that movement afforded Jacques an opportunity to see the poor wretch’s features; it seemed to him that he recognized his brother. The cold sweat stood on his forehead; and with a movement swifter than thought, he put his hand to his buttonhole and removed his decoration, which he instantly thrust into his breast.
The wagon had gone on, and Jacques followed it with his eyes. Sans-Souci pulled his arm.
“Come,” he said to him; “how in the devil can you take any pleasure in looking at those beggars?—But what’s the matter with you? Your face is all distorted.”
“Ah! I am ruined, Sans-Souci! dishonored!”
“You, dishonored! that is impossible; do be reasonable.”
“My brother——”
“Well?”