“Well! monsieur, you see, I am crying, I am unhappy.”
“And why are you crying?”
“Because my mother is sick, and because she has nothing that might help her; because I didn’t work to-day, and came home to the house without a sou; because I am a heartless wretch, and I deserve to be beaten!”
“Well, do you think that if you beat your head against the wall that that will help your mother?”
“Oh! no, monsieur! but when a fellow doesn’t know which way to turn! I went down and knocked at the concierge’s door; I wanted to borrow a little sugar and some charcoal of them; but they didn’t answer; I suppose they sleep too sound!”
“So you live in the house, do you?”
“Yes, monsieur, at the top, under the eaves; I live there with my mother, who is the widow of my father, Pierre Brunoy, who was a soldier, a non-commissioned officer, who left the service on account of a wound. Oh! he was a fine man, was my father! He was a draughts-man, he had lots of talent, and he used to make designs for ladies who embroider; we were happy then; but he died. My mother undertook to keep a little smallwares shop, to earn enough to educate me; but she didn’t succeed, for no one paid her. Then, as she works very well on linen, she began to work for people, and I, knowing that I ought to help mother, whose health isn’t very good, and who has weak eyes, I said to myself: ‘I will be a messenger, for I could never find a place, although I can read and write and figure; or else I should have to work without pay for a long while and I must earn money right away to help mother.’—So I started in as a messenger; for there isn’t any foolish trade, so I was told;—and—that’s all, monsieur.”
The gentleman of the third floor listened attentively to Georget, and when he had finished, said to him:
“Come with me.”
“Where, monsieur?”