The woman in front of her, she who sat on the same seat as Pierre, was of the same age, but belonged to the working classes.

She wore a black cap and displayed a face ravaged by wretchedness and anxiety, whilst on her lap she held a little girl of seven, who was so pale, so wasted by illness, that she scarcely seemed four.

With her nose contracted, her eyelids lowered and showing blue in her waxen face, the child was unable to speak, unable to give utterance to more than a low plaint, a gentle moan, which rent the heart of her mother, leaning over her, each time that she heard it.
"Would she eat a few grapes ?" timidly asked the lady, who had hitherto preserved silence.

"I have some in my basket." "Thank you, madame," replied the woman, "she only takes milk, and sometimes not even that willingly.

I took care to bring a bottleful with me." Then, giving way to the desire which possesses the wretched to confide their woes to others, she began to relate her story.