Oscar remained motionless, as if crushed.
"There is nothing left for you," said Moreau, coming back to him, "but to make yourself a soldier.

That idiot of a Clapart looks to me as though he couldn't live three months, and then your mother will be without a penny.

Ought I not, therefore, to reserve for her the little money I am able to give?
It was impossible to tell you this before her.
As a soldier, you'll eat plain bread and reflect on life such as it is to those who are born into it without fortune." "I may get a lucky number," said Oscar.
"Suppose you do, what then?
Your mother has well fulfilled her duty towards you.

She gave you an education; she placed you on the right road, and secured you a career.

You have left it.