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"My dear friends," continued the abbe, "let us pray in the first place for the souls of the dead, Jean Cochegrue, Nicalos Laferte, Joseph Brouet, Francois Parquoi, Sulpice Coupiau, all of this parish, and dead of wounds received in the fight on Mont Pelerine and at the siege of Fougeres. De profundis," etc.
"Basque," he said to the servant who entered, "how many letters have or notes were sent here during my absence?" "Three, monsieur le comte a note from M. de Fiesque, one from Madame de Laferte, and a letter from M. de las Fuentes." "Is that all?" "Yes, monsieur le comte." "Speak the truth before this gentleman the truth, you understand. I will take care you are not blamed."
For three months past, in Seine et Marne, in "the commune of Meaux, that of Laferte, Lagny, Daumartin, and other principal towns of the canton, they have had only half a pound per head, for each day, of bad bread." In Seine et Oise, "citizens of the neighborhood of Paris and even of Versailles state that they are reduced to four ounces of bread."
The mention of an animal being caught by a foreleg reminds me of the strange experience that Louison Laferte, a French half-breed, manservant at Fort Rae, once had with a wolf. Louison was quite a wag and at all times loved a joke. One day while visiting one of his trapping paths with his four-dog team he came upon a wolf caught in one of his traps by the foreleg.
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