“Here are one hundred sous. Go home and have some good soup.” “It’s three days’ work,” said the poor creature, staring at the crown piece that lay white in her shrivelled hand, “and I’ve only earned one.” “Take your pay, always. And your daughter. How’s she?” “She’s gone to Lyons.” “Does she work there?” The old woman let her two arms fall at her sides, and said nothing. “She must work,” said Mr. Roquevillard. “Since her sentence she can’t find a place. Who wants a thief?” The lawyer pleaded the circumstances of her case in extenuation. “She stole from thoughtlessness, coquetry, vanity. She’s not really bad. At her age she’ll turn over a new leaf. What does she live on?” “And what do you suppose she lives off? Men, of course.” “How do you know that?” “Because once, at first, I sent her a little money order to help her. She sent it back to me, with another, a big one, which I burned up.” “You burned it?” “Yes, Master Francis. It was the wages of shame.” And her anger straightened up her peasant form once more, making it seem menacing in the full light, her hands clenched like an accusing destiny. “I don’t see how I ever had her. There have never been anything but good people in our family. I’m ashamed now.” “It isn’t your fault, Pierrette.” She shook her head, with an air of conviction: “It’s always the fault of the family. You know that. You said so yourself.” “I? When?” “Yes, once before me, at Julienne, before the conviction. It worried me even then. And I brought her to see you one day.” “I remember. And what did I say to her?” “That when one had the good fortune to belong to an honest family, one ought to respect oneself all the more for it. Because in families everything is common property, land and debts, good conduct and bad.” “Still, no one can throw a stone at you.” “People do, though, just the same. And they’re right. Lucky enough I lost my husband before it all happened.” “He would have protected you.” “He would have killed her.” “And you, you love her just the same?” “She’s my child.” “Well, well, Pierrette. Don’t be discouraged. So long as one isn’t dead, there’s nothing to be lost. Go on home. I’m going to the presses now, to make sure the vats are all right.” “Thank you, Master Francis.” She had worked for the household at the Look Out from time to time, helping with the washing as well as at vintages, or even occasionally in the kitchen, so that she exercised the servants’ privilege of using his first name.