The eyes of Mademoiselle de Lâge were a merciless grey; her face was gold-white, like a dying maple-leaf. She wore no cap on her tumbled hair, and a coarse bistre-coloured _jupon_ was her prominent article of attire. I knew her at once, nevertheless, though her cheeks were a little fallen and her under-lids dashed with violet. She stared at me as she knelt; but she made no sign that she was afraid. “Mademoiselle is in tribulation?” “You need not speak a swineherd so fair,” she said. “But I honour pork with all my heart.” She rose to her feet. She seemed to hesitate. But she never took her eyes off me. “Whence do you come?” she said, in her soft, deliberate voice. “From the woods--from the wastes--from anywhere. I am proscribed and in hiding. I am hungry, also,--and mademoiselle will give me to eat?” “Why do you call me ‘mademoiselle’? Do you not see I am a swineherd?” The little pig still screeched fitfully underground. “Oh!” she cried, in sudden anguish. “Kill it, monsieur, if you know the way, and let us dine!” I was pleased with that “us.” “I have no technical knowledge,” I said. “But, let us see. It is injured?” “_Mon Dieu!_ I hope not. I had so longed to taste meat once more, and I had heard of pitfalls. There was a hole in the ground. I covered it over with branches, that one of these might step thereon and tumble in and be killed. But when I heard his cries I was sorry.” “That was a bold thought for a swineherd. And how would you tell your tale, with one devoured? or get the little pig out of the pit? or skin and dismember and cook it when hauled to the surface?” “All that I had not considered.” “But you desired to eat pork? And what would you say now to a pig’s foot _à la_ St Menehould?” The jest bubbled out of me; I could not withhold it. Her mind was as quick as her speech was measured. “Ah!” she cried, “but I remember. And you were in Février’s, monsieur?” “At the table next to yours.” “That is strange, is it not!” She gave a little scornful shift to her shoulders. “It is all nothing in these mad days. The question is, monsieur, if you can put the little beast out of his pain?” I looked into the pit. Two beady eyes, withdrawn into a fat neck, peered up at me. “The hole is not six feet deep, mademoiselle. His pain is all upon his nerves.” She gave a whimper of relief. Then her face fell cold again. “It follows that we must forego our dinner. Will monsieur release the victim of my gluttony?” I jumped into the hole--hoisted out the small squeaker--returned to the surface. “_Bon jour_, monsieur!” said Carinne. “You will dismiss me hungry, mademoiselle?” “What claim have you upon me?” “The claim of fraternity, citoyenne.” She uttered a little laugh of high disdain. “Well, rob me,” she said, “and prove yourself a true Republican.” “I would steal nothing from you but your favour.” “It is all bestowed on these animals. Take him you have rescued and make yourself my debtor and go.”