"We are fugitives from Nismes; we were beaten, we were burnt, we were
pillaged."

"My poor good woman, there are numbers in like case."

"But we starve," said she, bursting into tears. "My aged mother and my
little ones."

"I am very sorry for you, but I am a poor man myself--here, take this
trifle."

"Alas, we cannot eat money!" in a tone of such mournful reproach.

"No, true; it will buy a little bread--but there are no shops. Jean," in
a lower voice to me, "I've a loaf in the cart, shall we part with it?"

"Give it to her by all means," said I.

Before he did so, he said to her, "True, you cannot eat money, but money
will buy you bread in Nismes. Why not return there? The authorities are
welcoming all that conform."

"Death rather than that!" said she, clasping her hands to her heart, and
turning away.

"Stay, stay. Here is bread for you. It is all we have."

"Ah! bless--." She could say no more, but sobbed bitterly. La Croissette
turned his face away.