imprudent one, and the others were the sensible, the wise. What would
ever become of himself and his troop of children? Would he not die in
some garret? would they not lead lives of abject wretchedness? Ah! it was
evident the others were right, the others were sensible. And he felt
unhinged, he regarded himself with contempt, like a fool who has allowed
himself to be duped.

Then once more the image of Seraphine arose before his eyes, more
tempting than ever. A slight quiver came upon him as he beheld the blaze
of the Northern railway station and all the feverish traffic around it.
Wild fancies surged through his brain. He thought of Beauchene. Why
should he not do likewise? He recalled past times, and, yielding to
sudden madness, turned his back upon the station and retraced his steps
towards the Boulevards. Seraphine, he said to himself, was doubtless
waiting for him; she had told him that he would always be welcome. As for
his wife, he would tell her he had missed his train.

At last a block in the traffic made him pause, and on raising his eyes he
saw that he had reached the Boulevards once more. The crowd still
streamed along, but with increased feverishness. Mathieu's temples were
beating, and wild words escaped his lips. Why should he not live the same
life as the others? He was ready, even eager, to plunge into it. But the
block in the traffic continued, he could not cross the road; and while he
stood there hesitation and doubt came upon him. He saw in that increasing
obstruction a deliberate obstacle to his wild design. And all at once the
image of Seraphine faded from before his mind's eye and he beheld
another, his wife, his dear wife Marianne, awaiting him, all smiles and
trustfulness, in the fresh quietude of the country. Could he deceive her?
. . . Then all at once he again rushed off towards the railway station,
in fear lest he should lose his train. He was determined that he would