"But, then, Francois, it can't be so wicked to steal, if one is so well off in prison?"
"I don't know; here, there is no one but brother Martial who says it is wrong to steal, perhaps he is mistaken."
"Never mind, we must believe him, Francois; he loves us so much!"
"He loves us, it is true! when he is here no one dares to beat us. If he had been here to-night, mother wouldn't have whipped me. Old beast! ain't she wicked? Oh! I hate her—hate her. How I wish I was a man, to pay her back all the blows she has given me, and you, who can't bear it as well as I can."
"Oh! Francois, hush, you make me afraid, to hear you say that you would like to strike mother!" cried the poor little thing, weeping, and throwing her arms around the neck of her brother, whom she embraced tenderly.
"No, it is true," answered Francois, repulsing his sister gently; "why are mother and Calabash always so severe and cross to us?"
"I do not know," said Amandine, wiping her eyes; "it is, perhaps, because they guillotined father and sent Ambrose to the galleys."
"Is that our fault?"
"No; but—"
"If I am always to receive blows in the end, I would rather steal, as they wish me to; what good does it do me not to steal?"