Houtelard had gone off to sea one stormy evening and had never returned. His body had never been found, nor had that of his mate, nor even a single plank of their boat. Pauline, however, obliged as she was to exercise strict supervision over her charities, had sworn that she would never give a single sou to either son or widow, for they lived together in open shame. 'You know quite well why I won't have you coming here,' Pauline replied. 'When you behave differently, I will see what I can do for you.' Thereupon the young fellow began to plead his cause in a whining voice: 'It is all her fault; she brought it about. She would have gone on beating me otherwise. Please give us a trifle, kind young lady. We have lost everything. I could get on well enough myself, but it is for her that I'm asking you, and she is very ill--indeed she is; I swear it.' Pauline ended by taking pity on him and sending him away with a loaf of bread and some stew; and she even promised to call on the sick woman and take her some medicine. 'Medicine, indeed!' muttered Chanteau. 'Just you try to get her to swallow it!' But Pauline had already turned her attention to the Prouane girl, one of whose cheeks was gashed. 'How have you managed to do that?' 'I fell against a tree, Mademoiselle Pauline.' 'Against a tree? It looks more like a cut from the corner of a table.' She was a big girl now, with prominent cheek-bones, but she still had the great haggard eyes of a weak-witted child, and she made vain efforts to remain standing in a respectful attitude. Her legs shook under her, and she could scarcely articulate her words. 'Why! you have been drinking, you wicked girl!' cried Pauline, scrutinizing her keenly. 'Oh, Mademoiselle! how can you say so?' 'You were drunk and you fell down! Isn't it so? I know very well what you are all given to. Sit down, and I will go and get some arnica and a bandage.' She attended to the girl's cheek, and tried to make her feel ashamed of herself. It was disgraceful, she told her, for a girl of her age to intoxicate herself with her father and mother, a couple of drunkards who would be found dead some morning, poisoned by calvados. The girl listened drowsily, and when her cheek was bandaged she stammered out: 'Father is always complaining of pains, and I could rub him well if you would give me a little camphorated brandy.' Neither Pauline nor Chanteau could keep from laughing. 'No, no! I know very well what would become of the brandy. I will give you a loaf, though I'm afraid you will go and sell it and spend the money in drink. Stay where you are, and Cuche shall take you home.'