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 his eyes he saw that he had reached the Boulevards once more.  The crowd still streamed along, but with increased feverishness.  Mathieu’s temples were beating, and wild words escaped his lips.  Why should he not live the same life as the others?  He was ready, even eager, to plunge into it.  But the block in the traffic continued, he could not cross the road; and while he stood there hesitation and doubt came upon him.  He saw in that increasing obstruction a deliberate obstacle to his wild design.  And all at once the image of Seraphine faded from before his mind’s eye and he beheld another,