"Still, since I began to pass this way times have not been so bad with you, Simon," I would answer.
Thereto he had one invariable reply.
"No; thanks to Ste. Geneviève and your lordship, whom we call in this village the poor man's friend, I have a fowl in the pot."
This phrase so pleased me that I repeated it to the king. It tickled his fancy also, and for some years it was a very common remark of that good and great ruler, that he hoped to live to see every peasant with a fowl in his pot.
"But why," I remember I once asked this honest fellow—it was on the last occasion of the sorrel falling lame there—"do you thank Ste. Geneviève?"
"She is my patron saint," he answered.
"Then you are a Parisian?"
"Your lordship is always right."
"But does her saintship do you any good?" I asked curiously.
"Certainly, by your lordship's leave. My wife prays to her and she loosens the nails in the sorrel's shoes."