So he said all he wanted was to go to sleep himself
before the fire. We had nothing to give him but black bread. He
had better food with him than that, and undid his knapsack to get
at it, and--and--Gabriel! I'm sinking--drink! something to
drink--I'm parched with thirst."
Silent and deadly pale, Gabriel poured some of the cider from the
pitcher on the table into a drinking-cup, and gave it to the old
man. Slight as the stimulant was, its effect on him was almost
instantaneous. His dull eyes brightened a little, and he went on
in the same whispering tones as before:
"He pulled the food out of his knapsack rather in a hurry, so
that some of the other small things in it fell on the floor.
Among these was a pocketbook, which your father picked up and
gave him back; and he put it in his coat-pocket--there was a tear
in one of the sides of the book, and through the hole some
bank-notes bulged out. I saw them, and so did your father (don't
move away, Gabriel; keep close, there's nothing in me to shrink
from). Well, he shared his food, like an honest fellow, with us;
and then put his hand in his pocket, and gave me four or five
livres, and then lay down before the fire to go to sleep. As he
shut his eyes, your father looked at me in a way I didn't like.
He'd been behaving very bitterly and desperately toward us for
some time past, being soured about poverty, and your mother's
illness, and the constant crying out of you children for more to
eat.
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