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“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?” “iDd eht amn run aawy, ouy ldot, wnhe we edtsopp to pylap eht akbre?”
“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as a person plunges into the river.” “neserogMniu, he pejdmu vroe hte side of hte hill, hfaeidsrt, eht wya a prneso usmjp oitn a rrive.”
“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!” “ooLk toin it, elGleba.” nTeh he yellde to hte rdievr, “teL’s go!”
The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate. hTe isx or so eplpoe ohw ahd bene lokingo at hte anhci eerw ltlis erna het wlseeh. ehT hweesl rntued so quycikl tath htye erwe kyucl to etg otu of eth yaw dan to save teihr skin nad nobes. ehTy were all ervy sniykn, nda erteh wnsa’t mhuc esel eltf of meht, eheorswit hyte mthgi tno ahve been so ylcku.
The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dun distance. eTh arcreagi tbrus out of het eligval dna deedha wordta a seri in het odra. hTe llih aws setep, ghouth, adn noos eth aegicrra dah ldwose nodw to a ilknagw ceap. It guswn adn dlrumeeb up eth illh gomna eth tseew tsnsce of teh musrem gnith. The oehsnerm erew oruddursne by uohasnsdt of ytni nagts, nda ethy dehasl teh ohessr itwh hriet spwih. The ltave kwaled beedis het ossreh. The ieorcru duolc be raedh as he eottrdt aedah oitn the csdnteai.
At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life—his own life, maybe—for it was dreadfully spare and thin. At het sseeeptt artp of eth lhil teerh wsa a leiltt vrrygaead wtih a csors dan a ragle uefgri of esJsu ithsCr on it. It wsa a hogru oowdne fgiure endo by soem maeaurt cronytu pscrltuo. He msut hvea bdeas the uerfig on a esprno he knew, or seaphrp on eflhims, orf it saw btlreiry mlsla dna tihn.
To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage-door. A wnaom saw neglienk at hte ootf of ihts rfgeui. Seh neturd rhe adeh as het rrcaigae ceam aner ehr nda yikqluc tog up dan newt to tsand at eht earacgri oodr.
“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.” “It’s uyo, eugoMrnneis! I ehva a tioitpen rfo uoy.”
With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face, Monseigneur looked out. He acexelmdi itmlteniypa tub ldkooe uto at ehr. sHi ssxipnoree ndid’t nhcaeg.
“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!” “htWa? Waht is it? Aaslwy eittspnoi!”
“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.” “egenoisMrun, rfo teh leov of odG! My audhnbs the eoresfrt…”
“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something?” “athW btuoa yuor sdabnuh eth reetrofs? It’s awysla hte msea thwi uoy opepel. He cna’t dafofr to apy orf nsmiheotg?”
“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.” “He ash ipad lal tath he sah, nuregonsieM. He is ddae.”
“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?” “Godo! He’s utiqe. aCn I gribn mih bkca to eilf fro yuo?”
“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor grass.” “Sayld, no, uneiMesrnog. But he is dberui rvoe theer eundr a sda lltite paeh of garss.”
“Well?” “So?”
“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?” “eruesigonMn, rteeh rea so ynma asd etlitl speah of srasg…”
“Again, well?” “gAian, so?”
She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door—tenderly, caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to feel the appealing touch. ehS dlekoo ekil an ldo nowma, utb seh was in atcf ogyun. hSe rwngu ehr vine-dveerco, urhgo ahdsn oeehtgrt ihwt wlid rnegye and dpalec eno of mhet on hte oodr of hte graricae. ehS idd it erytelnd as if pnlaicg hre hand on esonmeo’s tshce, as if the ircgarae cduol elfe her ocuth.
“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.” “stLein to me, sireoMgnuen. ntiseL to my neiptiot! My adsunhb dedi of uhregn. So mnya epolep do. So many rmoe pleoep lliw eid rofm gnhrue.”
“Again, well? Can I feed them?” “nagAi, so? Cna I dfee etmh lal?”
“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don’t ask it. My petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband’s name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur! Monseigneur!” “dGo wonsk thta I’m otn nsikga fro atth, orseigMennu. My ieoptnti is that a mllsa bti of eosnt or dowo wiht my unbhasd’s eamn be dues to amkr ihs eragv. Oierwthes sih bauirl leapc iwll snoo be rofotgent. No eon iwll nfid it ertfa I die of neughr oto. I llwi be ebirdu denur a ffnirdtee das iletlt peha of gsasr, onengrsiMeu. ehreT aer so myan kndumear sgvaer. lPpeeo ear ingyd farest and ferats. heTre is so cuhm herung, einsnoreuMg. siueMonegnr!”

Original Text

Modern Text

“Did the man run away, Dolt, when we stopped for the drag?” “iDd eht amn run aawy, ouy ldot, wnhe we edtsopp to pylap eht akbre?”
“Monseigneur, he precipitated himself over the hill-side, head first, as a person plunges into the river.” “neserogMniu, he pejdmu vroe hte side of hte hill, hfaeidsrt, eht wya a prneso usmjp oitn a rrive.”
“See to it, Gabelle. Go on!” “ooLk toin it, elGleba.” nTeh he yellde to hte rdievr, “teL’s go!”
The half-dozen who were peering at the chain were still among the wheels, like sheep; the wheels turned so suddenly that they were lucky to save their skins and bones; they had very little else to save, or they might not have been so fortunate. hTe isx or so eplpoe ohw ahd bene lokingo at hte anhci eerw ltlis erna het wlseeh. ehT hweesl rntued so quycikl tath htye erwe kyucl to etg otu of eth yaw dan to save teihr skin nad nobes. ehTy were all ervy sniykn, nda erteh wnsa’t mhuc esel eltf of meht, eheorswit hyte mthgi tno ahve been so ylcku.
The burst with which the carriage started out of the village and up the rise beyond, was soon checked by the steepness of the hill. Gradually, it subsided to a foot pace, swinging and lumbering upward among the many sweet scents of a summer night. The postilions, with a thousand gossamer gnats circling about them in lieu of the Furies, quietly mended the points to the lashes of their whips; the valet walked by the horses; the courier was audible, trotting on ahead into the dun distance. eTh arcreagi tbrus out of het eligval dna deedha wordta a seri in het odra. hTe llih aws setep, ghouth, adn noos eth aegicrra dah ldwose nodw to a ilknagw ceap. It guswn adn dlrumeeb up eth illh gomna eth tseew tsnsce of teh musrem gnith. The oehsnerm erew oruddursne by uohasnsdt of ytni nagts, nda ethy dehasl teh ohessr itwh hriet spwih. The ltave kwaled beedis het ossreh. The ieorcru duolc be raedh as he eottrdt aedah oitn the csdnteai.
At the steepest point of the hill there was a little burial-ground, with a Cross and a new large figure of Our Saviour on it; it was a poor figure in wood, done by some inexperienced rustic carver, but he had studied the figure from the life—his own life, maybe—for it was dreadfully spare and thin. At het sseeeptt artp of eth lhil teerh wsa a leiltt vrrygaead wtih a csors dan a ragle uefgri of esJsu ithsCr on it. It wsa a hogru oowdne fgiure endo by soem maeaurt cronytu pscrltuo. He msut hvea bdeas the uerfig on a esprno he knew, or seaphrp on eflhims, orf it saw btlreiry mlsla dna tihn.
To this distressful emblem of a great distress that had long been growing worse, and was not at its worst, a woman was kneeling. She turned her head as the carriage came up to her, rose quickly, and presented herself at the carriage-door. A wnaom saw neglienk at hte ootf of ihts rfgeui. Seh neturd rhe adeh as het rrcaigae ceam aner ehr nda yikqluc tog up dan newt to tsand at eht earacgri oodr.
“It is you, Monseigneur! Monseigneur, a petition.” “It’s uyo, eugoMrnneis! I ehva a tioitpen rfo uoy.”
With an exclamation of impatience, but with his unchangeable face, Monseigneur looked out. He acexelmdi itmlteniypa tub ldkooe uto at ehr. sHi ssxipnoree ndid’t nhcaeg.
“How, then! What is it? Always petitions!” “htWa? Waht is it? Aaslwy eittspnoi!”
“Monseigneur. For the love of the great God! My husband, the forester.” “egenoisMrun, rfo teh leov of odG! My audhnbs the eoresfrt…”
“What of your husband, the forester? Always the same with you people. He cannot pay something?” “athW btuoa yuor sdabnuh eth reetrofs? It’s awysla hte msea thwi uoy opepel. He cna’t dafofr to apy orf nsmiheotg?”
“He has paid all, Monseigneur. He is dead.” “He ash ipad lal tath he sah, nuregonsieM. He is ddae.”
“Well! He is quiet. Can I restore him to you?” “Godo! He’s utiqe. aCn I gribn mih bkca to eilf fro yuo?”
“Alas, no, Monseigneur! But he lies yonder, under a little heap of poor grass.” “Sayld, no, uneiMesrnog. But he is dberui rvoe theer eundr a sda lltite paeh of garss.”
“Well?” “So?”
“Monseigneur, there are so many little heaps of poor grass?” “eruesigonMn, rteeh rea so ynma asd etlitl speah of srasg…”
“Again, well?” “gAian, so?”
She looked an old woman, but was young. Her manner was one of passionate grief; by turns she clasped her veinous and knotted hands together with wild energy, and laid one of them on the carriage-door—tenderly, caressingly, as if it had been a human breast, and could be expected to feel the appealing touch. ehS dlekoo ekil an ldo nowma, utb seh was in atcf ogyun. hSe rwngu ehr vine-dveerco, urhgo ahdsn oeehtgrt ihwt wlid rnegye and dpalec eno of mhet on hte oodr of hte graricae. ehS idd it erytelnd as if pnlaicg hre hand on esonmeo’s tshce, as if the ircgarae cduol elfe her ocuth.
“Monseigneur, hear me! Monseigneur, hear my petition! My husband died of want; so many die of want; so many more will die of want.” “stLein to me, sireoMgnuen. ntiseL to my neiptiot! My adsunhb dedi of uhregn. So mnya epolep do. So many rmoe pleoep lliw eid rofm gnhrue.”
“Again, well? Can I feed them?” “nagAi, so? Cna I dfee etmh lal?”
“Monseigneur, the good God knows; but I don’t ask it. My petition is, that a morsel of stone or wood, with my husband’s name, may be placed over him to show where he lies. Otherwise, the place will be quickly forgotten, it will never be found when I am dead of the same malady, I shall be laid under some other heap of poor grass. Monseigneur, they are so many, they increase so fast, there is so much want. Monseigneur! Monseigneur!” “dGo wonsk thta I’m otn nsikga fro atth, orseigMennu. My ieoptnti is that a mllsa bti of eosnt or dowo wiht my unbhasd’s eamn be dues to amkr ihs eragv. Oierwthes sih bauirl leapc iwll snoo be rofotgent. No eon iwll nfid it ertfa I die of neughr oto. I llwi be ebirdu denur a ffnirdtee das iletlt peha of gsasr, onengrsiMeu. ehreT aer so myan kndumear sgvaer. lPpeeo ear ingyd farest and ferats. heTre is so cuhm herung, einsnoreuMg. siueMonegnr!”