"That's it, old man, isn't it? They've quite done for you. It's no good having your hands still strong; you're done for."
Bonnemort looked at her with his dim eyes without understanding. He remained for hours with fixed gaze, having no intelligence now except to spit into a plate filled with ashes, which was put beside him for cleanliness.
"And they've not settled his pension, either," she went on. "And I'm sure they won't give it, because of our ideas. No! I tell you that we've had too much to do with those people who bring ill luck."
"But," Catherine ventured to say, "they promise on the placard—"
"Just let me alone with your damned placard! More birdlime for catching us and eating us. They can be mighty kind now that they have ripped us open."
"But where shall we go, mother? They won't keep us at the settlement, sure enough."
Maheude made a vague, terrified gesture. Where should they go to? She did not know at all; she avoided thinking, it made her mad. They would go elsewhere—somewhere. And as the noise of the saucepan was becoming unbearable, she turned round on Lénore and Henri and boxed their ears. The fall of Estelle, who had been crawling on all fours, increased the disturbance. The mother quieted her with a push—a good thing if it had killed her! She spoke of Alzire; she wished the others might have that child's luck. Then suddenly she burst out into loud sobs, with her head against the wall.
Étienne, who was standing by, did not dare to interfere. He no longer counted for anything in the house, and even the children drew back from him suspiciously. But the unfortunate woman's tears went to his heart, and he murmured:
"Come, come! courage! we must try to get out of it."
She did not seem to hear him, and was bemoaning herself now in a low continuous complaint.