Ernest Pérochon

“ The father was thoughtful for a moment, groping for words of comfort. Finding none that would satisfy him, he ended by saying:
"Better not borrow! Sell your harvest right away. The market is low, but it's better to sell than to borrow."
"What were you saying, father?"
"I say it'll give you cash in hand—at least two hundred pistoles. You can do a lot with a sum like that."
Michael made a gesture of disillusioned indifference. He was so far from all that! He thought:
"My purse is empty: why isn't my heart like my purse? Why is it bulging with worthless coin?" ”

“ She makes your children as comfortable and cosy as two kittens in the sun. I'm telling you just what I see, my boy."
"Maybe so, but a servant is a servant: You pay her wages and she quits. That kind of paid help can never be like—the other."
"All right, I don't say—But see here now, boy—when you're over your grief——"
"I'll never get over it."
"You say that. And it's true, one never does get over it quite.—But a man argues himself out of it, bye and bye.—Do you mind if I speak out, Michael?"
"Of course not!" the young man said expectantly. "You, father, you can say anything at all to me." ”

“ He was glad when his father got up at the other end of the barn and came toward him. His father talked often and willingly of the time, not so long past, when life lay before Michael like a flowery path.
"Did you sleep, father?"
The old man sat down on the straw beside him.
"Not much: the flies are terrible. ”