And could any more unhappy man, any man more deserving of pity, be found even among the poor who died of hunger, among those gloomy workers, those vanquished sons of labour who hated and who envied him?
When Pierre found himself in the street again he was astonished to see Madame Toussaint and Madame Theodore still there with little Celine.

With their feet in the mud, like bits of wreckage against which beat the ceaseless flow of wayfarers, they had lingered there, still and ever chatting, loquacious and doleful, lulling their wretchedness to rest beneath a deluge of tittle-tattle.

And when Toussaint, followed by his son, came out, delighted with the advance he had secured, he also found them on the same spot.

Then he told Madame Theodore the story of the bradawl, and the idea which had occurred to him and all his mates that Salvat might well be the culprit.

She, however, though turning very pale, began to protest, concealing both what she knew and what she really thought.
"I tell you I haven't seen him for several days," said she.