In the afternoon about four o'clock, the prince left for Strasbourg, accompanied by all the royalists in the country on horseback, some on good mounts, and others, like Pinacle, on old hacks. One event the Pfalzbourgers of that day remember until this, and that is, that after the prince was seated in his carriage and was driving slowly away, one of the emigre officers with his head uncovered and in uniform, ran after him, crying in a pitiful voice, "Bread, my prince, bread for my children!" That made the people blush, and they ran away for shame. We went home in silence, Father Goulden was lost in thought, when Aunt Gredel arrived. "Well! Mother Gredel, you ought to be satisfied," said he. "And why?" "Because Pinacle has been decorated." She turned quite livid, and said after a minute: "That is the greatest trumpery that ever was seen. If the prince had known what he is, he would have hung him rather than decorate him with the cross of honor." "That is just the trouble," said Mr. Goulden, "those people do many such things without knowing it, and when they do know, it is too late." VIII So it was that Monseigneur the Duke de Berry, visited the departments of the East. Every word he uttered was taken up and repeated again and again. Some praised his exceeding graciousness, and others kept silence. From that time I suspected that all these emigres and officers on half-pay, these preachers with their processions and their expiations, would overturn everything again, and about the beginning of winter we heard that not only with us, but all over Alsace affairs were growing worse and worse in just the same way. One morning between eleven and twelve Father Goulden and I were both at work, each one thinking after his own fashion, and Catherine was laying the cloth. I started to go out to wash my hands at the pump, as I always did before dinner, when I saw an old woman wiping her feet on the straw mat at the foot of the stairs and shaking her skirts which were covered with mud. She had a stout staff, and a large rosary hung from her neck. As I looked at her from the top of the stairs, she began to come up and I recognized her immediately by the folds about her eyes and the innumerable wrinkles round her little mouth, as Anna-Marie, the pilgrim of St. Witt. The poor old woman often brought us watches to mend, from pious people who had confidence in her, and Mr. Goulden was always delighted to see her. "Ah!" he exclaimed, "it is Anne-Marie! now we shall have the news. And how is Mr. Such-an-one, the priest? How is the Vicar So-and-So? Does he still look as well as ever? and Mr. Jacob, of such a place. And the old sexton, Niclausse, does he still ring the bells at Dann, and at Hirschland, and Saint Jean? He must begin to look old?" "Ah! Mr. Goulden, thanks for Mr. Jacob, you know that he lost Mademoiselle Christine last week." "What! Mademoiselle Christine?" "Yes, indeed?"