The sergeant, who was quite loquacious, continued to question her. "Devil take it, every one has relations, or one has had them! Who are you? Speak!" The woman listened bewildered; this "or one has had them" sounded more like the cry of a wild beast than the speech of a human being. The vivandière felt obliged to interfere. She began to caress the nursing child, and patted the other two on the cheeks. "What is the baby's name? It's a little girl, isn't it?" The mother replied, "Georgette." "And the oldest one? For he is a man, the rogue!" "René-Jean." "And the younger one? For he is a man too, and a chubby one into the bargain." "Gros-Alain," replied the mother. "They are pretty children," said the vivandière. "They look already as if they were somebody." Meanwhile the sergeant persisted. "Come! Speak, madam! Have you a house?" "I had one once." "Where was it?" "At Azé." "Why are you not at home?" "Because my house was burned." "Who burned it?" "I do not know. There was a battle." "Were do you come from?" "From over there." "Where are you going?" "I do not know." "Come, to the point! Who are you?" "I do not know." "Don't know who you are?" "We are people running away." "To what party do you belong?" "I do not know." "To the Blues, or the Whites? Which side are you on?" "I am with my children." There was a pause. The vivandière spoke. "For my part I never had any children. I have not had time." The sergeant began again. "But what about your parents? See here, madam, tell me the facts about your parents. Now, my name is Radoub. I am a sergeant. I live on the Rue Cherche-Midi. My father and my mother lived there. I can talk of my parents. Tell us about yours. Tell us who your parents were." "Their name was Fléchard. That's all." "Yes. The Fléchards are the Fléchards, just as the Radoubs are the Radoubs. But people have a trade. What was your parents' trade? What did they do, these Fléchards of yours?"[1] "They were laborers. My father was feeble and could not work, on account of a beating which the lord, his lord, our lord, gave him: it was really a mercy, for my father had poached a rabbit, a crime of which the penalty is death; but the lord was merciful and said, 'You may give him only a hundred blows with a stick;' and my father was left a cripple." "And then?" "My grandfather was a Huguenot. The curé had him sent to the galleys. I was very young then." "And then?" "My husband's father was a salt smuggler. The king had him hung." "And what did your husband do?" "He used to fight in those times." "For whom?" "For the king." "And after that?" "Ah! For his lord." "And then?" "For the curé." "By all the names of beasts!" cried the grenadier. The woman jumped in terror. "You see, madam, we are Parisians," said the vivandière, affably. The woman clasped her hands, exclaiming,-- "Oh, my God and Lord Jesus!" "No superstitions here!" rejoined the sergeant.