"Madame," he stammered, putting aside his gaiety, and rose.
"Monseigneur, I supplicate your mercy," she sobbed.
"My mercy? I do not understand."
"Your mercy; I supplicate it," she cried in an agonised voice.
"My good woman, I would never injure you, I protest."
"I am their mother, sir; I am starving."
"Whose mother?"
She represented the prisoners as being sons of hers. When she mentioned the robbery, he recoiled. As she proceeded, however, he condoled with her and gave her a piece of money, which she took, expatiating brokenly on the dependance of her sons' necks on his evidence.
"Mon Dieu! Monsieur," she concluded, "do you know what it is to take three lives of poor men? Can you picture what it means to a parent? You have a heart—you have a God—you have a mother."
The flood of tears and hysterical sobbing were in the highest art of expert mendicancy. She advanced towards him, threw herself upon her knees at his feet, embraced his shoes, and writhed.