Then he made a last attempt:  “But, my friends, think of the child’s future, of his happiness, of—­”

The peasant woman, however, exasperated, cut him short: 

“It’s all considered!  It’s all understood!  Get out of here, and don’t let me see you again—­the idea of wanting to take away a child like that!”

Madame d’Hubieres remembered that there were two children, quite little, and she asked, through her tears, with the tenacity of a wilful and spoiled woman: 

“But is the other little one not yours?”

Father Tuvache answered:  “No, it is our neighbors’.  You can go to them if you wish.”  And he went back into his house, whence resounded the indignant voice of his wife.

The Vallins were at table, slowly eating slices of bread which they parsimoniously spread with a little rancid butter on a plate between the two.

M. d’Hubieres recommenced his proposals, but with more insinuations, more oratorical precautions, more shrewdness.

The two country people shook their heads, in sign of refusal, but when they learned that they were to have a hundred francs a month, they considered the matter, consulting one another by glances, much disturbed.  They kept silent for a long time, tortured, hesitating.  At last the woman asked:  “What do you say to it, man?” In a weighty tone he said:  “I say that it’s not to be despised.”

Madame d’Hubieres, trembling with anguish, spoke of the future of their child, of his happiness, and of the money which he could give them later.

The peasant asked:  “This pension of twelve hundred francs, will it be promised before a lawyer?”

M. d’Hubieres responded:  “Why, certainly, beginning with to-morrow.”

The woman, who was thinking it over, continued: 

“A hundred francs a month is not enough to pay for depriving us of the child.  That child would be working in a few years; we must have a hundred and twenty francs.”

Tapping her foot with impatience, Madame d’Hubieres granted it at once, and, as she wished to carry off the child with her, she gave a hundred francs extra, as a present, while her husband drew up a paper.  And the young woman, radiant, carried off the howling brat, as one carries away a wished-for knick-knack from a shop.

The Tuvaches, from their door, watched her departure, silent, serious, perhaps regretting their refusal.

Nothing more was heard of little Jean Vallin.  The parents went to the lawyer every month to collect their hundred and twenty francs.  They had quarrelled with their neighbors, because Mother Tuvache grossly insulted them, continually, repeating from door to door that one must be unnatural to sell one’s child; that it was horrible, disgusting, bribery.  Sometimes she would take her Charlot in her arms, ostentatiously exclaiming, as if he understood: 

“I didn’t sell you, I didn’t!  I didn’t sell you, my little one!  I’m not rich, but I don’t sell my children!”