"God hear you, my child!"
"It appears very plain to me, mamma, if he could do nothing for us, he would have informed you at once."
"Unless he will do nothing at all."
"Ah, mamma, can it be possible? not deign to answer us, and leave us to hope four days, eight days perhaps—for when one is unfortunate they hope always."
"Alas! my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the woes which one does not know!"
"But your letter."
"My letter cannot give him an idea of our troubles, of our sufferings of each moment. Can my letter picture to him our unfortunate life, our humiliations of every description, our existence in this frightful house, the alarm we have experienced even just now? Can my letter describe to him the horrible future which awaits us, if—but stop, my child, do not let us speak of this. Mon Dieu! you tremble—you are cold."
"No, mamma; pay no attention to it; but tell me, suppose everything fails, that the little money which remains in that trunk is spent, can it be possible that in a rich place like Paris we should both die of hunger and misery, for want of work, and because a bad man has taken what you had?"
"Hush, poor child."
"But, mamma, could It be?"