Where are the little ones?
who will give them bread?
who will give them their father's kiss?
where is the wife?
where is the mother?
where is the brother?
where are they all?
And the songs which at eventide they used to hear, in their native tongue, where are they?
where is the wood, the tree, the forest path, the roof filled with nests, the church tower surrounded by tombs?
Where is the street, the faubourg, the lamp burning bright before the door, the friends, the workshop, the trade, the customary toil?
And the furniture put up for sale, the auction invading the domestic sanctuary! Oh! these eternal adieux! Destroyed, dead, thrown to the four winds, that moral existence which is called the family hearth, and which is composed not only of loving converse, of caresses and embraces, but of hours, of habits, of friendly visits, of joyous laughter, of the pressure of the hand, of the view from certain windows, of the position of certain furniture, of the arm-chair where the grandsire used to sit, of the carpet on which the first-born used to play! Flown away for ever are those objects which bore the imprint of one's daily life! Vanished are the visible forms of one's souvenirs! There are in grief private and secret recesses, where the most lofty courage bends.

The Roman orator put forth his head without flinching to the knife of the centurion Lenas, but he wept when he thought of his house demolished by Clodius.
The exiles are silent, or, if they complain, it is only among themselves.

As they know one another, and are doubly brothers, having the same fatherland and sharing the same proscription, they tell one another their sufferings.

He who has money shares it with those who have none, he who has firmness imparts it to those who lack it.

They exchange recollections, aspirations, hopes.