He was at the end of the room, in the shadow.
Petit was thinking, with his head resting on his chest.
They would arrive at the other end of France, their last sou eaten up by the journey, and they would again find down there, under different names, the same curé, the same superintendent, the same prefect—all, even to the minister, were like links in a chain dragging him down. He had already had one warning—others would follow. After that?—and in a kind of hallucination he saw himself walking along a high-road, a bag on his back, those whom he loved by his side, and his hand held out towards a post-chaise.
At that moment his wife was seized with a fit of coughing in the kitchen, the new-born infant began to squeal, and the boy was crying.
"Poor children!" said the priest in a softened voice.
The father thereupon broke into sobs:
"Yes, yes! whatever you require!"
"I count upon it," replied the curé.
And, having made the customary bow:
"Well, good evening to you, gentlemen."