Viorne, the little sharp paving stones, wounded their
feet. And they had at last to return to La Souleiade, without having
succeeded in obtaining anything, the old mendicant king and his
submissive subject; Abishag, in the flower of her youth, leading back
David, old and despoiled of his wealth, and weary from having walked the
streets in vain.

It was eight o'clock, and Martine, who was waiting for them,
comprehended that she would have no cooking to do this evening. She
pretended that she had dined, and as she looked ill Pascal sent her at
once to bed.

"We do not need you," said Clotilde. "As the potatoes are on the fire we
can take them up very well ourselves."

The servant, who was feverish and out of humor, yielded. She muttered
some indistinct words--when people had eaten up everything what was the
use of sitting down to table? Then, before shutting herself into her
room, she added:

"Monsieur, there is no more hay for Bonhomme. I thought he was looking
badly a little while ago; monsieur ought to go and see him."

Pascal and Clotilde, filled with uneasiness, went to the stable. The old
horse was, in fact, lying on the straw in the somnolence of expiring old
age. They had not taken him out for six months past, for his legs, stiff
with rheumatism, refused to support him, and he had become completely
blind. No one could understand why the doctor kept the old beast.
Even Martine had at last said that he ought to be slaughtered, if only
through pity. But Pascal and Clotilde cried out at this, as much excited
as if it had been proposed to them to put an end to some aged relative
who was not dying fast enough. No, no, he had served them for more than
a quarter of a century; he should die comfortably with them, like the
worthy fellow he had always been. And to-night the doctor did not scorn
to examine him, as if he had never attended any other patients than
animals. He lifted up his hoofs, looked at his gums, and listened to the
beating of his heart.

"No, there is nothing the matter with him," he said at last. "It is
simply old age. Ah, my poor old fellow, I think, indeed, we shall never
again travel the roads together."

The idea that there was no more hay distressed Clotilde. But Pascal
reassured her--an animal of that age, that no longer moved about, needed
so little. She stooped down and took a few handfuls of grass from a heap
which the servant had left there, and both were rejoiced when Bonhomme
deigned,