"March! tramp!" was Jacintha's
least word. She added, giving the rein to her imagination, "I'll loose
the dog." The man moved away, the woman turned appealingly to Edouard.
He and Josephine came towards the group. She had got a sort of large
hood, and in that hood she carried an infant on her shoulders. Josephine
inspected it. "It looks sickly, poor little thing," said she.
"What can you expect, young lady?" said the woman. "Its mother had to
rise and go about when she ought to have been in her bed, and now she
has not enough to give it."
"Oh, dear!" cried Josephine. "Jacintha, give them some food and a nice
bottle of wine."
"That I will," cried Jacintha, changing her tone with courtier-like
alacrity. "I did not see she was nursing."
Josephine put a franc into the infant's hand; the little fingers closed
on it with that instinct of appropriation, which is our first and often
our last sentiment. Josephine smiled lovingly on the child, and the
child seeing that gave a small crow.
"Bless it," said Josephine, and thereupon her lovely head reared itself
like a snake's, and then darted down on the child; and the young noble
kissed the beggar's brat as if she would eat it.
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