Although, not to be unlike the others, I sometimes took part in this cruel sport, I could not help feeling a sort of pity for the little Breton. I understood that here was a being predestined to misfortune,―one of those beings who, whatever they may do and wherever they may go, will be eternally repulsed by men, and also by beasts,—for there is a certain height of ugliness, a certain form of infirmity, that the beasts themselves do not tolerate.
One day, overcoming my disgust, I approached her, and asked:
"What is your name?"
"Louise Randon."
"I am a Breton . . . from Audierne. And you, too, are a Breton, are you not?"
Astonished that anyone was willing to speak to her, and fearing some insult or practical joke, she did not answer directly. She buried her thumb in the deep caverns of her nose. I repeated my question.
"From what part of Britanny do you come?"
Then she looked at me, and, seeing undoubtedly that there was no unkindness in my eyes, she decided to answer:
"I am from Saint-Michel-en-Grève, near Lannion."
I knew not what further to say to her. Her voice was repulsive to me. It was not a voice; it
