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I went to the beggar woman and whispered in her ear: 'Do you know who gave you that? It's the emperor's minister. The poor woman started; and her astounded eyes wandered from the open-handed swell to the piece of silver and from the piece of silver to the open-handed swell. What a surprise! What a windfall! 'Que lou bon Dieu ie done longo vido e santa, pecaire! she said, in her cracked voice.
For the lips moved and a long moan answered him, a far-away wail, a despairing cry, which filled with helpless tears the glance exchanged between Francoise and her son, and tore from them both the same cry in which their sorrow met, "Pecaire," the local word which expressed all pity and all tenderness.
And, curtseying and nodding, she withdrew, still staring at the coin in the palm of her hand. 'What did she say? asked Duruy. 'She wished you long life and health. 'And pecaire? 'Pecaire is a poem in itself: it sums up all the gentler passions. And I myself mentally repeated the artless vow.
Perhaps the imprisoned mind heard him in the depths of its dark, degrading purgatory. But the lips moved and a long groan made answer; a far-off wail, a despairing appeal caused the glance Françoise and her son exchanged to overflow with impotent tears, and drew from them both a simultaneous cry in which their sorrows met: Pécaïré! the local word expressive of all pity, all affection.
And, full of their troubles, they unfolded, before my eyes, a scrap of flannel on which the vermin were swarming: "Regardas, moussu! Venoun d'espeli; et ren per lour douna! Ah, pecaire!" "Look, sir! The frost has come and we've nothing to give them! Oh, what a misfortune!" Poor people! What a harsh trade is yours: respectable above all others, but of all the most uncertain!
So he felt himself obliged to explain himself clearly, to stoop to dotting every i, at the risk of being shown out of doors. Molina was too shrewd to run this risk. He would return at another time, seeing that the minister turned a deaf ear, but pécaïre! he sweat huge drops in seeking roundabout phrases, this man who never minced his words and habitually called things by their proper names.
The post-boy was still exchanging amenities with Asie, and vehicles were collecting in the Rue du Martroi. "Look out, there Pecaire fermati. Souni la Vedrem," shrieked old Asie, with the Red-Indian intonations peculiar to these female costermongers, who disfigure their words in such a way that they are transformed into a sort onomatopoeia incomprehensible to any but Parisians.
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