We were all stunned by the dreadful news from England. It was very
sad old Sir Francis, who had borne without complaint the loss of
land, honours, and home, nay, who had stood by to see his only son
die at Naseby, sitting like one crushed, and only able to mutter now
and then: 'My Master, my good Master.' You might know an English
exile in those days by the mourning scarf and sad countenance. I
remember a poor wild cavalier whom my mother and Meg never liked to
admit when Eustace was not at home, going down on his knees to Lady
Ommaney for a bit of black silk, when he looked as if he was
starving.
We could not, of course, have evening receptions for our poor hungry
countrymen in the absence of my mother, and with such sorrow upon us
all, but Lady Ommaney and I did contrive pies and pasties, and all
sorts of food that could be sent as gifts without offence to the
families we thought most straitened.
The poor of Paris itself were not so very ill-off, for there were
continual distributions of money and flour to keep them in good
humour, and there were songs about.
'Le bon tems que c'etait
A Paris Durant la famine,
Tout le monde s'entrebaisait
A Paris Durant la famine,
La plus belle se contentait
D'un simple boisseau de farine.'
La plus belle was the Duchess of Longueville, who tried hard to
persuade the people that she was one with them.
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