returning. And a jealous thought came to his wife, who usually was so
placid and good-natured. "Ah! my poor old man!" said she, after propping
him up with a pillow, "those two are luckier than we are. Everything
succeeds with them since that madman, Salvat, had his head cut off.
They're provided for. They've plenty of bread on the shelf."

Then, turning towards Pierre and Thomas, she continued: "We others are
done for, you know, we're down in the mud, with no hope of getting out of
it. But what would you have? My poor husband hasn't been guillotined,
he's done nothing but work his whole life long; and now, you see, that's
the end of him, he's like some old animal, no longer good for anything."

Having made her visitors sit down she next answered their compassionate
questions. The doctor had called twice already, and had promised to
restore the unhappy man's power of speech, and perhaps enable him to
crawl round the room with the help of a stick. But as for ever being able
to resume real work that must not be expected. And so what was the use of
living on? Toussaint's eyes plainly declared that he would much rather
die at once. When a workman can no longer work and no longer provide for
his wife he is ripe for the grave.

"Savings indeed!" Madame Toussaint resumed. "There are folks who ask if
we have any savings. . . . Well, we had nearly a thousand francs in the
Savings Bank when Toussaint had his first attack. And some people don't
know what a lot of prudence one needs to put by such a sum; for, after
all, we're not savages, we have to allow ourselves a little enjoyment now
and then, a good dish and a good bottle of wine. . . . Well, what with
five months of enforced idleness, and the medicines, and the underdone
meat that was ordered, we got to the end of our thousand francs; and now
that it's all begun again we're not likely to taste any more bottled wine