“What! when you give them that money?”
“Papa’s waiting for the soup for his dinner; and when he sees me without the bowl—”
“Well,” thought Auguste, “I see that I must take it on myself to arrange this matter. It will make me still later; but this little fellow is so pretty! and they are quite capable of beating him, despite the five-franc piece. I wasted one hour making love to a milkmaid, I can afford to sacrifice a second to save this child a thrashing.—Come, Coco; off we go, my boy! Take me to your father; I’ll tell him that it was I who knocked the bowl out of your hands as I passed, and I’ll promise that you won’t be beaten.”
Coco looked at Auguste, then turned his eyes on the remains of the vessel, from which he was very reluctant to part. But Dalville took his hand, and the child concluded at last to start. On the way Auguste tried to make him talk, to divert him from his terror.
“What does your father do, my boy?”
“He works in the fields.”
“And his name?”
“Papa Calleux.”
“Papa Calleux evidently is not very pleasant, as you’re so afraid of him. And your mother?”
“She’s dead.”