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.