“The pastry-cook’s bill amounts to at least a thousand francs,” Felicite resumed, in her sweetest tone, “and we probably owe twice as much to the liqueur-dealer.  Then there’s the butcher, the baker, the greengrocer——­”

Pierre was in agony.  And Felicite struck him a final blow by adding:  “I say nothing of the ten thousand francs you gave for the guns.”

“I, I!” he faltered, “but I was deceived, I was robbed!  It was that idiot Sicardot who let me in for that by swearing that the Napoleonists would be triumphant.  I thought I was only making an advance.  But the old dolt will have to repay me my money.”

“Ah! you won’t get anything back,” said his wife, shrugging her shoulders.  “We shall suffer the fate of war.  When we have paid off everything, we sha’n’t even have enough to buy dry bread with.  Ah! it’s been a fine campaign.  We can now go and live in some hovel in the old quarter.”

This last phrase had a most lugubrious sound.  It seemed like the knell of their existence.  Pierre pictured the hovel in the old quarter, which had just been mentioned by Felicite.  ’Twas there, then, that he would die on a pallet, after striving all his life for the enjoyment of ease and luxury.  In vain had he robbed his mother, steeped his hands in the foulest intrigues, and lied and lied for many a long year.  The Empire would not pay his debts—­that Empire which alone could save him.  He jumped out of bed in his night-shirt, crying:  “No; I’ll take my gun; I would rather let the insurgents kill me.”

“Well!” Felicite rejoined, with great composure, “you can have that done to-morrow or the day after; the Republicans are not far off.  And that way will do as well as another to make an end of matters.”

Pierre shuddered.  It seemed as if some one had suddenly poured a large pail of cold water over his shoulders.  He slowly got into bed again, and when he was warmly wrapped up in the sheets, he began to cry.  This fat fellow easily burst into tears—­gently flowing, inexhaustible tears—­which streamed from his eyes without an effort.  A terrible reaction was now going on within him.  After his wrath he became as weak as a child.  Felicite, who had been waiting for this crisis, was delighted to see him so spiritless, so resourceless, and so humbled before her.  She still preserved silence, and an appearance of distressed humility.  After a long pause, her seeming resignation, her mute dejection, irritated Pierre’s nerves.

“But do say something!” he implored; “let us think matters over together.  Is there really no hope left us?”

“None, you know very well,” she replied; “you explained the situation yourself just now; we have no help to expect from anyone; even our children have betrayed us.”

“Let us flee, then.  Shall we leave Plassans to-night—­immediately?”

“Flee!  Why, my dear, to-morrow we should be the talk of the whole town.  Don’t you remember, too, that you have had the gates closed?”