the same existence of
pleasure and baseness which the others led.

Then he remembered the three hundred francs which he carried in his
pocket. Three hundred francs, which must last for a whole month, though
out of them he had to pay various little sums that he already owed. The
remainder would barely suffice to buy a ribbon for Marianne and jam
for the youngsters' bread. And if he set the Moranges on one side, the
others, the Beauchenes and the Seguins, were rich. He bitterly recalled
their wealth. He pictured the rumbling factory with its black buildings
covering a great stretch of ground; he pictured hundreds of workmen
ever increasing the fortune of their master, who dwelt in a handsomely
appointed pavilion and whose only son was growing up for future
sovereignty, under his mother's vigilant eyes. He pictured, too, the
Seguins' luxurious mansion in the Avenue d'Antin, the great hall, the
magnificent staircase, the vast room above, crowded with marvels; he
pictured all the refinement, all the train of wealth, all the tokens of
lavish life, the big dowry which would be given to the little girl, the
high position which would be purchased for the son. And he, bare and
empty-handed, who now possessed nothing, not even a stone at the edge of
a field, would doubtless always possess nothing, neither factory buzzing
with workmen, nor mansion rearing its proud front aloft. And he was the
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