ed and
thirty-eight left. Eight francs a day at the utmost. Well, we have a
nice month before us, with our four children to feed, particularly if
little Rose should fall ill."

The remark surprised his wife, who laughed gayly and confidently,
saying: "Why, what is the matter with you to-night, my dear? You seem to
be almost in despair, when as a rule you look forward to the morrow as
full of promise. You have often said that it was sufficient to love life
if one wished to live happily. As for me, you know, with you and the
little ones I feel the happiest, richest woman in the world!"

At this Mathieu could restrain himself no longer. He shook his head and
mournfully began to recapitulate the day he had just spent. At great
length he relieved his long-pent-up feelings. He spoke of their poverty
and the prosperity of others. He spoke of the Beauchenes, the Moranges,
the Seguins, the Lepailleurs, of all he had seen of them, of all they
had said, of all their scarcely disguised contempt for an improvident
starveling like himself. He, Mathieu, and she, Marianne, would never
have factory, nor mansion, nor mill, nor an income of twelve thousand
francs a year; and their increasing penury, as the others said, had
been their own work. They had certainly shown themselves imprudent,
improvident. And he went on with his recollections, telling Marianne
that he feared nothing for himself, but that he did not wish to condemn
her and the little ones to want and poverty. She was surprised at first,
and by degrees became colder, more constrained, as he told her all that
he had upon his mind. Tears slowly welled into her eyes; and at last,
however lovingly he spoke, she could no longer restrain herself, but
burst into sobs. She did not question what he said, she spoke no words
of revolt, but it was evident that her whole being rebelled, and that
her heart was sorely grieved.

He started, greatly troubled when he saw her tears. Something akin to
her own feelings came upon him. He was terribly distressed, angry with
himself. "Do not weep, my darling!" he exclaimed as he pressed her to
him: "it was stupid, brutal, and wrong of me to speak to you in that
way. Don't distress yourself, I beg you; we'll think it all over and
talk about it some other time."

She ceased to weep, but she continued silent, clinging to him, with her
head resting on his shoulder. And Mathieu, by the side of that loving,
trustful woman, all health and rectitude and