And as Alfred grew he became
yet more corrupt; he was like the sacrificed surplus of a poor man's
family, the surplus poured into the gutter, the spoilt fruit which spoils
all that comes into contact with it.
Like Alexandre, too, he nowadays only lived chancewise, and it was not
even known where he had been sleeping, since Mother Moineaud had died at
a hospital exhausted by her long life of wretchedness and family cares
which had proved far too heavy for her. She was only sixty at the time of
her death, but was as bent and as worn out as a centenarian. Moineaud,
two years older, bent like herself, his legs twisted by paralysis, a
lamentable wreck after fifty years of unjust toil, had been obliged to
quit the factory, and thus the home was empty, and its few poor sticks
had been cast to the four winds of heaven.
Moineaud fortunately received a little pension, for which he was indebted
to Denis's compassionate initiative. But he was sinking into second
childhood, worn out by his long and constant efforts, and not only did he
squander his few coppers in drink, but he could not be left alone, for
his feet were lifeless, and his hands shook to such a degree that he ran
the risk of setting all about him on fire whenever he tried to light his
pipe.
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