And each time the battle began afresh, to such a point
indeed that it seemed as if the shaky old mill would some day end by
falling on their heads.
Then, all at once, Antonin, a perfect wreck at thirty-six years of age,
fell seriously ill. Lepailleur forthwith declared that if the scamp had
the audacity to come home he would pitch him over the wheel into the
water. Antonin, however, had no desire to return home; he held the
country in horror and feared, too, that his father might chain him up
like a dog. So his mother placed him with some people of Batignolles,
paying for his board and for the attendance of a doctor of the district.
This had been going on for three months or so, and every fortnight La
Lepailleur went to see her son. She had done so the previous Thursday,
and on the Sunday evening she received a telegram summoning her to
Batignolles again. Thus, on the morning of the day when Mathieu repaired
to the mill, she had once more gone to Paris after a frightful quarrel
with her husband, who asked if their good-for-nothing son ever meant to
cease fooling them and spending their money, when he had not the courage
even to turn a spit of earth.
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