"Faith!" exclaimed Zacharie, when he had put his nose into his bowl, "here's something that won't get into our heads."
Maheu shrugged his shoulders with an air of resignation.
"Bah! It's hot! It's good all the same."
Jeanlin had gathered up the fragments of bread and made a sop of them. After having drunk, Catherine finished by emptying the coffee-pot into the tin-jacks. All four, standing up in the smoky light of the candle, swallowed their meals hastily.
"Are we at the end?" said the father; "one would say we were people of property."
But a voice came from the staircase, of which they had left the door open. It was Maheude, who called out:
"Take all the bread: I have some vermicelli for the children."
"Yes, yes," replied Catherine.
She had piled up the fire, wedging the pot that held the remains of the soup into a corner of the grate, so that the grandfather might find it warm when he came in at six. Each took his sabots from under the sideboard, passed the strings of his tin over his shoulder and placed his brick at his back, between shirt and jacket. And they went out, the men first, the girl, who came last, blowing out the candle and turning the key. The house became dark again.
"Ah! we're off together," said a man who was closing the door of the next house.