Both she and Cecile still
work; yes, Cecile still lives on, though one used to think that a fillip
would have killed her. It's a pretty home, that one of theirs; two
mothers for a big lad of whom they've made a decent fellow."
Mathieu nodded approvingly, and then remarked: "But you yourself, Victor,
had boys and girls who must now in their turn be fathers and mothers."
The old workman waved his hand vaguely.
"Yes," said he, "I had eight, one more than my father. They've all gone
off, and they are fathers and mothers in their turn, as you say, Monsieur
Froment. It's all chance, you know; one has to live. There are some of
them who certainly don't eat white bread, ah! that they don't. And the
question is whether, when my arms fail me, I shall find one to take me
in, as Norine and Cecile took my father. But when everything's said, what
can you expect? It's all seed of poverty, it can't grow well, or yield
anything good."
For a moment he remained silent; then resuming his walk towards the
works, with bent, weary back and hanging hands, dented by toil, he said:
"Au revoir, Monsieur Froment."
"Au revoir, Victor," Mathieu answered in a kindly tone.
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