“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 I have done for you, why, it’s nothing!  I was coming this way, at any rate, and I’ve given you a lift; that’s all.”

“You may make light of it, if you will,” said I, “but I know you have continually run risks for me; and depend on it, I shall never forget you.  Adieu, my friend.”

“Farewell, then,” said he, “and take my best wishes with you.  I hope you will now slip safely out of the country, but a good piece of it remains before you yet.  Nor are your feet in good condition for walking.”

“That has been provided for,” said Antoine.  “As soon as we get to the waterside we shall find a boat awaiting us, which will carry us to Bordeaux.”