the world scoffed at him, and went its way.

However, he still had his mother, and it was to her that the child
directed all the feelings of a heart repelled by others. With her he
found shelter, and was happy, till he reached the age when a man must
take his place in life; and Maurice had to content himself with that
which others had refused with contempt. His education would have
qualified him for any course of life; and he became an octroi-clerk--
[The octroi is the tax on provisions levied at the entrance of the town]
--in one of the little toll-houses at the entrance of his native town.

He was always shut up in this dwelling of a few feet square, with no
relaxation from the office accounts but reading and his mother's visits.
On fine summer days she came to work at the door of his hut, under the
shade of a clematis planted by Maurice. And, even when she was silent,
her presence was a pleasant change for the hunchback; he heard the
clinking of her long knitting-needles; he saw her mild and mournful
profile, which reminded him of so many courageously-borne trials; he
could every now and then rest his hand affectionately on that bowed neck,
and exchange a smile with her!

This comfort was soon to be taken from him. His old mother fell sick,
and at the end of a few days he had to give up all hope. Maurice was
overcome at the idea of a separation which would henceforth leave him
alone on earth, and abandoned himself to boundless grief. He knelt by
the bedside of the dying woman, he called her by the fondest names, he
pressed her in his arms, as if he could so keep her in life. His mother
tried to return his caresses, and to answer him; but her hands were cold,
her voice was already gone. She could only press her lips against the
forehead of her son, heave a sigh, and close her eyes forever!