La Moineaude, short and fat like her husband, was a woman of about forty, worn out before her time, with ashen face, pale eyes, thin faded hair, and a weak mouth which already lacked many teeth.  A large family had been too much for her; and, moreover, she took no care of herself.

“Well, my good woman,” Constance inquired, “what do you wish with me?”

But La Moineaude remained quite scared by the sight of all those people whom she had not expected to find there.  She said nothing.  She had hoped to speak to the lady privately.

“Is this your last-born?” Beauchene asked her as he looked at the pale, puny child on her arm.

“Yes, monsieur, it’s my little Alfred; he’s ten months old and I’ve had to wean him, for I couldn’t feed him any longer.  I had nine others before this one, but three are dead.  My eldest son, Eugene, is a soldier in Tonquin.  You have my two big girls, Euphrasie and Norine, at the works.  And I have three left at home—­Victor, who is now fifteen, then Cecile and Irma, who are ten and seven.  After Irma I thought I had done with children for good, and I was well pleased.  But, you see, this urchin came!  And I, forty too—­it’s not just!  The good Lord must surely have abandoned us.”

Then Dr. Boutan began to question her.  He avoided looking at the Beauchenes, but there was a malicious twinkle in his little eyes, and it was evident that he took pleasure in recapitulating the employer’s arguments against excessive prolificness.  He pretended to get angry and to reproach the Moineauds for their ten wretched children—­the boys fated to become food for powder, the girls always liable to misfortune.  And he gave the woman to understand that it was her own fault if she was in distress; for people with a tribe of children about them could never become rich.  And the poor creature sadly answered that he was quite right, but that no idea of becoming rich could ever have entered their heads.  Moineaud knew well enough that he would never be a cabinet minister, and so it was all the same to them how many children they might have on their hands.  Indeed, a number proved a help when the youngsters grew old enough to go out to work.

Beauchene had become silent and slowly paced the room.  A slight chill, a feeling of uneasiness was springing up, and so Constance made haste to inquire:  “Well, my good woman, what is it I can do for you?”

“Mon Dieu, madame, it worries me; it’s something which Moineaud didn’t dare to ask of Monsieur Beauchene.  For my part I hoped to find you alone and beg you to intercede for us.  The fact is we should be very, very grateful if our little Victor could only be taken on at the works.”

“But he is only fifteen,” exclaimed Beauchene.  “You must wait till he’s sixteen.  The law is strict.”

“No doubt.  Only one might perhaps just tell a little fib.  It would be rendering us such a service—­”

“No, it is impossible.”