of my nephews in the Assize Court. Ah!
what a family! As for Macquart, he has annoyed us to such an extent that
I felt inclined to break his head for him the other day when I had a gun
in my hand. Yes, I had a mind to do it."

Felicite let the storm pass over. She had received her husband's
reproaches with angelic sweetness, bowing her head like a culprit,
whereby she was able to smile in her sleeve. Her demeanour provoked and
maddened Pierre. When speech failed the poor man, she heaved deep sighs,
feigning repentance; and then she repeated, in a disconsolate voice:
"Whatever shall we do! Whatever shall we do! We are over head and ears
in debt."

"It's your fault!" Pierre cried, with all his remaining strength.

The Rougons, in fact, owed money on every side. The hope of approaching
success had made them forget all prudence. Since the beginning of 1851
they had gone so far as to entertain the frequenters of the yellow
drawing-room every evening with syrup and punch, and cakes--providing,
in fact, complete collations, at which they one and all drank to the
death of the Republic. Besides this, Pierre had placed a quarter of
his capital at the disposal of the reactionary party, as a contribution
towards the purchase of guns and cartridges.

"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 va