pened to see me this morning. Oh, it's a stupid affair! I'm quite
of that opinion; but, then, what would you have?"

Thereupon he launched out into long explanations concerning his marital
life and the intrigue which had suddenly sprung up between him and that
girl Norine, old Moineaud's daughter. He professed the greatest respect
for his wife, but he was nevertheless a loose liver; and Constance was
now beginning to resign herself to the inevitable. She closed her eyes
when it would have been unpleasant for her to keep them open. She
knew very well that it was essential that the business should be kept
together and pass intact into the hands of their son Maurice. A tribe of
children would have meant the ruin of all their plans.

Mathieu listened at first in great astonishment, and then began to
ask questions and raise objections, at most of which Beauchene laughed
gayly, like the gross egotist he was. He talked at length with extreme
volubility, going into all sorts of details, at times assuming a
semi-apologetic manner, but more frequently justifying himself with an
air of triumph. And, finally, when they reached the corner of the
Rue Caumartin he halted to bid Mathieu good-by. He there had a little
bachelor's lodging, which was kept in order by the concierge of the
house, who, being very well paid, proved an extremely discreet domestic.

As he hurried off, Mathieu, still standing at the corner of the street,
could not help thinking of the scenes which he had witnessed at the
Beauchene works that day. He thought of old Moineaud, the fitter, whom
he again saw standing silent and unmoved in the women's workroom while
his daughter Euphrasie was being soundly rated by Beauchene, and while
Norine, the other girl, looked on with a sly laugh. When the toiler's
children have grown up and gone to join, the lads the army of slaughter,
and the girls the army of vice, the father, degraded by the ills of
life, pays little heed to it all. To him it is seemingly a matter of
indifference to what disaster the wind may carry the fledgelings who
fall from the nest.

It was now half-past nine o'clock, and Mathieu had more than an hour
before him to reach the Northern railway station. So he did not hurry,
but strolled very leisurely up the Boulevards. He had eaten and drunk
far more than usual, and Beauchene's insidious confidential talk, still
buzzing in his ears, helped on his intoxication. His hands were hot,
and now and again a sud