the people, the poverty that is poetic; which Callot,
Hogarth, Murillo, Charlet, Raffet, Gavarni, Meissonier, Art itself
adores and cultivates, especially during the carnival. The man in whom
poor Agathe thought she recognized her son was astride the last two
classes of poverty. She saw the ragged neck-cloth, the scurfy hat, the
broken and patched boots, the threadbare coat, whose buttons had shed
their mould, leaving the empty shrivelled pod dangling in congruity
with the torn pockets and the dirty collar. Scraps of flue were in the
creases of the coat, which showed plainly the dust that filled it. The
man drew from the pockets of his seam-rent iron-gray trousers a pair
of hands as black as those of a mechanic. A knitted woollen waistcoat,
discolored by use, showed below the sleeves of his coat, and above the
trousers, and no doubt served instead of a shirt. Philippe wore a
green silk shade with a wire edge over his eyes; his head, which was
nearly bald, the tints of his skin, and his sunken face too plainly
revealed that he was just leaving the terrible Hopital du Midi. His
blue overcoat, whitened at the seams, was still decorated with the
ribbon of his cross; and the passers-by looked at the hero, doubtless
some victim of the government, with curiosity and commiseration; the
rosette attracted notice, and the fiercest "ultra" was jealous for the
honor of the Legion. In those days, however much the government
endeavored to bring the Order into disrepute by bestowing its cross
right and left, there were not fifty-three thousand persons decorated.

Agathe trembled through her whole being. If it were impossible to love
this son any longer, she could still suffer for him. Quivering with
this last expression of motherhood, she wept as she saw the brilliant
staff officer of the Emperor turn to enter tobacconist's and pause on
the threshold; he had felt in his pocket and found nothing. Agathe
left the bridge, crossed the quai rapidly, took out her purse, thrust
it into Philippe's hand, and fled away as if she had committed a
crime. After that, she ate nothing for two days; before her was the
horrible vision of her son dying of hunger in the streets of Paris.

"When he has spent all the money in my purse, who will give him any?"
she thought. "Giroudeau did not deceive us; Philippe is just out of
that hospital."

She no longer saw the assassin of her poor aunt, the scourge of the
family, the domestic thief, the gambler, the