Jean stopped before the next to the last hut, where a lanky boy in ragged clothes stood slouching against the doorway. He had a long, ugly face and he was so thin that he seemed nothing but bones and eyes. He snatched one of the loaves of bread from under Jean’s arm and began eating it, tearing at the end of it with his teeth. The second loaf and the towel fell to the ground as Jean caught the other end of the loaf that Grigge was devouring and pulled at it with all his might.
“You shall not eat it all up. The others shall have their share,” he cried. But Grigge, who, in spite of his thinness, was stronger than Jean, being two years his senior and used to rough work, pulled himself away, bread and all, and went inside the hut. Jean turned around only to find his two younger cousins and the children next door fighting for the second loaf. He knew that there was nothing he could do to separate them or reason with them and so, having brought the bread, he could only leave them to fight it out. There were a dozen children now fighting for the loaf. Jean watched them for a moment and then turned back toward home. A voice called to him from the doorway in mocking tones. It was Grigge. He spoke between mouthfuls.
“You think you are very fine because you live with the gentry. You think you are a prince because you live within the gates!”
Jean turned and shook his fists at him and then ran on. He was in no mood for a fight with his cousin just then. Little rosy clouds floated in the sky, the air was full of the scent of the warm earth and cool wind. Jean began to run. He ran on faster and faster. He liked to think that he was flying. He was going home to a bowl of hot soup and the comfort of his mother’s presence.
As he ran through the wood, Jean began to feel very sorry indeed for his cousins. His mother was right. They had never had anything. He was sorry that he had not wanted to take them the bread. His mother’s cottage came into view as he reached the clearing in the wood. Mother Barbette was sitting on the doorstep knitting and the white deal table was drawn close to the door. When he came up to her he threw both arms around her and gave her a hug.
“I am a good boy. I know I am, Petite Mère, because the lark answered when I called. It never does if I am naughty.”
“Your soup is keeping hot over the fire. Dish it out carefully into your own blue bowl. There is a piece of bread on the table. You may eat it with your soup here at the table by the door. The night is so fine that I could not stay inside.”
“I would rather sit on the doorstep beside you, Petite Mère,” Jean answered, bringing his porringer of soup, and sitting down at his mother’s feet.
He did not talk at all until he had finished his soup and bread, for he was very hungry. When he was finished he went in and peered inside the stock pot, but there was no more soup.
“I am still hungry, Petite Mère. I want more bread,” he complained, coming to the door.