"Laveuve, Laveuve?
no, I don't.

But Salvat, you hear?
Do you know a Laveuve here ?" Salvat merely shrugged his shoulders; but the little girl could not keep her tongue still: "I say, mamma Theodore, it's p'raps the Philosopher." "A former house-painter," continued Pierre, "an old man who is ill and past work." Madame Theodore was at once enlightened.

"In that case it's him, it's him.

We call him the Philosopher, a nickname folks have given him in the neighbourhood.

But there's nothing to prevent his real name from being Laveuve." With one of his fists raised towards the ceiling, Salvat seemed to be protesting against the abomination of a world and a Providence that allowed old toilers to die of hunger just like broken-down beasts.
However, he did not speak, but relapsed into the savage, heavy silence, the bitter meditation in which he had been plunged when the priest arrived.