"When did he die? said the peasant.
"The last accounts from the East brought the news; and this very day the Council of State has accorded a pension to his family of ten thousand livres."
"They may keep their money. I am all that remains, and have no want of it; and I should be poorer still before I'd take it."
These words he uttered in a low, harsh tone, and pushed his way back though the crowd.
One moment more was enough for my inquiry.
"Maurice Tiernay, of the 9th—destitué," was the short and stunning answer I received.
"Is there any reason alleged—is there any charge imputed to him?" asked I, timidly.
"Ma foi! you must go to the Minister of War with that question. Perhaps he was pay-master, and embezzled the funds of the regiment; perhaps he liked royalist gold better than republican silver; or perhaps he preferred the company of the baggage-train and the 'ambulances,' when he should have been at the head of his squadron."
I did not care to listen longer to this impertinence, and making my way out I gained the street. The old peasant was still standing there, like one stunned and overwhelmed by some great shock, and neither heeding the crowd that passed, nor the groups that halted occasionally to stare at him.
"Come along with me," said I, taking his hand in mine. "Your calamity is a heavy one, but mine is harder to bear up against."