n old man of severe aspect held up his hand, and said:

"Peace, unfeeling man--you bring your senseless ribaldry to the wrong
market. Here are only lamentations, and mourning, and woe."

"My good sir, one must live," said La Croisette.

"And how? tell me that!" retorted the old man, indignantly. "They that
fed delicately are desolate in the streets; they that were clad in
scarlet are cast on dunghills; the tongue of the suckling child cleaves
to the roof of its mouth for thirst; the young children ask for bread,
and no man giveth unto them."

Then, with a wail that was almost like a howl, he tore his hair and
cried, "For this, for this mine eyes run down with water and mine
eyelids take no rest. Is it nothing to you, all ye that pass by?"

"Jean, I cannot stand this," said La Croissette, as the old man hurried
away. "All the people seem with broken hearts--it takes all spirit out
of me. I cannot even hawk needles and pins among the starving--who would
buy?"

I could only say, "How dreadful is this place! The Lord seems to have
forsaken his sanctuary."

"Let us seek another place as soon as we can--"

"You forget: I am to be met here by an agent of my father's at La Boule
d'Or."

"Ah, well, we will go thither."

When we drove into the inn-yard, however, we could hear unruly voices in
the house, and feared we might fall into bad company. A man immediately
came up to us, and said to me, in a low voice:

"Are you M. Jacques Bonneval?"

"I am. Are you Antoine Leroux?"

"Hist!--yes. There are ill-disposed people in the inn; you had better
not go in-doors. Can you walk a little way?"

"Yes."

"Come with me, then."

"I must bid my companion farewell." Turning to La Croissette, I took his
hand in both mine, and pressed it fervently, saying:

"My dear La Croissette, adieu. May God bless you in this world and the
next. I wish I could make some return for your exceeding kindness, but,
unfortunately, can give you nothing but my prayers."

"Pray say nothing of it," said he, cordially. "Your prayers are the very
thing I should like to have, for, unfortunately, I am not good at them
myself. As I pass a Calvary by the roadside I pull off my hat, in token
of respect, you know, for what it represents; and had I had a bringing
up like yours I might have had as pretty a turn for psalmody; but as the
matter stands, why, you will be Jacques Bonneval, and I Bartholome La
Croissette to the end of the chapter. As for what