people. He cannot pay something?”

“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.”

“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?”

“Alas, no Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap

of poor grass.”

“Well?”

“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass.”

“Again, well?”

She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one

of passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted

hands together with wild energy, and laid one of them on the

carriage-doortenderly, caressingly, as if it had been a human

breast, and could be expected to feel the appealing touch.

“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My

husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will die

of want.”

“Again, well? Can I feed them?”

“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don’t ask it. My

petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband’s

name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. Otherwise,

the place will be quickly forgotten, it will never be found when I

am dead of the same malady. I shall be laid under some other heap

of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many, they increase so

fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur! Monseigneur!”

Charles Dickens ElecBook Classics

The valet had put her away from the door, the carriage had

broken into a brisk trot, t