"Unless he will do nothing."
"Oh, mamma, is that possible? to refuse to answer us, and leave us in hope for four days—eight days, perhaps; for when one is miserable we always hope."
"Alas, my child, there is sometimes so much indifference for the miseries persons have never known!"
"But your letter—"
"My letter cannot give him any idea of our actual disquietude, our constant sufferings; my letter will not depict to him our unhappy life, our constant humiliations, our existence in this horrid house,—the fright we have but this instant experienced. My letter will not describe the horrible future which is in store for us, if—But, my love, do not let us talk of that. You tremble,—you are cold."
"No, mamma, don't mind me; but tell me, suppose all fails us, the little money we have in the box is spent,—is it possible that, in a city as rich as Paris, we shall both die of hunger and misery—for want of work, and because a wicked man has taken from you all you had in the world?"
"Oh, be silent, my unfortunate child!"
"But really, mamma, is it possible?"
"Alas!"
"But God, who knows all, who can do all, will he abandon us, who have never offended him?"