`It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.'
With an exclamation of impatience, but with his Un+changeable face, Monseigneur looked out.
`How, then! What is it? Always petitions!'
`Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.'
`What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something?'
`He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.'
`Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?'
`Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor grass.'