He nods. "Indeed, mademoiselle." But only the rich are wont to hunt, and it is more to display the animals as trophies so as to brag to their peers than it is for the necessity of feeding themselves. The wealthy will always be fed. They will never go as hungry as the street-rats and gamin of Paris.

He shakes off the sudden hatred that grabs at him against his grandfather's proud, lavish lifestyle and continues with, in a tone that's mostly controlled, "although some animals are bred for the slaughter."