"Well, then, what are we to do?"
"I know not."
"The baker refuses to let us have anything more on credit,—will he?"
"No; and I was obliged yesterday to beg Madame Pipelet to lend me part of a loaf."
"Can we borrow anything more of Mother Burette?"
"She has already every article belonging to us in pledge. What have we to offer her to lend more money on,—our children?" asked Morel, with a smile of bitterness.
"But yourself, my mother, and all the children had but part of a loaf among you all yesterday. You cannot go on in this way; you will be starved to death. It is all your fault that we are not on the books of the charitable institution this year."
"They will not admit any persons without they possess furniture, or some such property; and you know we have nothing in the world. We are looked upon as though we lived in furnished apartments, and, consequently, ineligible. Just the same if we tried to get into any asylum, the children are required to have at least a blouse, while our poor things have only rags. Then, as to the charitable societies, one must go backwards and forwards twenty times before we should obtain relief; and then what would it be? Why, a loaf once a month, and half a pound of meat once a fortnight.[5] I should lose more time than it would be worth."
[5] Such is the ordinary allowance made at charitable societies, in consequence of the vast number of applicants for relief.
"But, still, what are we to do?"