He puts his hand in his pocket to sound his purse; it is there.
There ought to be thirty-seven sous in it, which will not run to the
wine of Prou, but--

But suddenly he starts, stops dead, and smites himself on the
forehead. His long-drawn face is contracted in a frightful grimace,
masked by the night. No, he no longer has thirty-seven sous, fool
that he is! He has forgotten the tin of sardines that he bought the
night before--so disgusting did he find the dark macaroni of the
soldiers' mess--and the drinks he stood to the cobbler who put him
some nails in his boots.

Misery! There could not be more than thirteen sous left!

To get as elevated as one ought, and to avenge himself on the life
of the moment, he would certainly need--damn'ation--a liter and a
half, In this place, a liter of red ordinary costs twenty-one sous.
It won't go.

His eyes wander around him in the darkness, looking for some one.
Perhaps there is a pal somewhere who will lend him money, or stand
him a liter.

But who--who? Not Becuwe, he has only a marraine [note 1:]
who sends him tobacco and note-paper every fortnight. Not Barque,
who would not toe the line; nor Blaire, the miser--he wouldn't
understand. Not Biquet, who seems to have something against him; nor
Pepin who himself begs, and never pays, even when he is host.
Ah, if Volpatte were there! There is Mesnil Andre, but he is
actually in debt to Fouillade on account of several drinks round.