FÉCHAIN [smiling] That? Oh, yes; I’ve got the proofs. [He takes some papers from his pocket] Here are their birth certificates, all twelve. I always have them about me—never go without them—so as I can shew them. You can count them.
HOURTIN [taking the papers] Do all your children live with you?
FÉCHAIN. Oh, no. Why there aren’t more than seven left.
HOURTIN. The others are dead?
FÉCHAIN. Poor folks can’t hope to keep all they have.
HOURTIN. When you had had five, you must have seen that you couldn’t support them?
FÉCHAIN. Of course.
HOURTIN. And you had more all the same?
FÉCHAIN. We couldn’t have been worse off than we were. One more or less makes no odds; and then, after seven, things are easier.