The man addressed
looked around. He was poorly and thinly clothed, with only a ragged
muffler knotted about his throat to keep off the stinging cold. From
under his great shaggy eyebrows a pair of wild, sunken eyes gleamed
ferociously, but there was a smile upon his lips.
"'Tis nothing, M'sieur," he said, nonchalantly. "'Tis only a poor wretch
who has died from the cold and they are taking him away. You see he
could not get any charcoal this morning when he went to Monsieur
Juigne. 'Tis best so." He turned away carelessly, and, forcing himself
through the crowd, was soon lost to sight.
"There are many such," said Beaufort, gloomily, in answer to Calvert's
look of inquiry. "What will you have? The winter has been one of
unexampled, of never-ending cold. The government, the cures, the nobles
have done much for the poor wretches, but it has been impossible to
relieve the suffering. They have, at least, to be thankful that freezing
is such an easy death, and when all is said, they are far better off
dead than alive. But it is extremely disagreeable to see the shivering
scarecrows on the streets, and they ought to be kept to the poorer
quarters of the city.
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