She then began to make her preparations for the night; but Mathieu, instead of imitating her, sat down at the table where the lamp stood, and drew the money paid to him by Morange from his pocket.  When he had counted those three hundred francs, those fifteen louis, he said in a bitter, jesting way, “The money hasn’t grown on the road.  Here it is; you can pay our debts to-morrow.”

This remark gave him a fresh idea.  Taking his pencil he began to jot down the various amounts they owed on a blank page of his pocket diary.  “We say twelve francs to the Lepailleurs for eggs and milk.  How much do you owe the butcher?” he asked.

“The butcher,” replied Marianne, who had sat down to take off her shoes; “well, say twenty francs.”

“And the grocer and the baker?”

“I don’t know exactly, but about thirty francs altogether.  There is nobody else.”

Then Mathieu added up the items:  “That makes sixty-two francs,” said he.  “Take them away from three hundred, and we shall have two hundred and thirty-eight left.  Eight francs a day at the utmost.  Well, we have a nice month before us, with our four children to feed, particularly if little Rose should fall ill.”

The remark surprised his wife, who laughed gayly and confidently, saying:  “Why, what is the matter with you to-night, my dear?  You seem to be almost in despair, when as a rule you look forward to the morrow as full of promise.  You have often said that it was sufficient to love life if one wished to live happily.  As for me, you know, with you and the little ones I feel the happiest, richest woman in the world!”

At this Mathieu could restrain himself no longer.  He shook his head and mournfully began to recapitulate the day he had just spent.  At great length he relieved his long-pent-up feelings.  He spoke of their poverty and the prosperity of others.  He spoke of the Beauchenes, the Moranges, the Seguins, the Lepailleurs, of all he had seen of them, of all they had said, of all their scarcely disguised contempt for an improvident starveling like himself.  He, Mathieu, and she, Marianne, would never have factory, nor mansion, nor mill, nor an income of twelve thousand francs a year; and their increasing penury, as the others said, had been their own work.  They had certainly shown themselves imprudent, improvident.  And he went on with his recollections, telling Marianne that he feared nothing for himself, but that he did not wish to condemn her and the little ones to want and poverty.  She was surprised at first, and by degrees became colder, more constrained, as he told her all that he had upon his mind.  Tears slowly welled into her eyes; and at last, however lovingly he spoke, she could no longer restrain herself, but burst into sobs.  She did not question what he said, she spoke no words of revolt, but it was evident that her whole being rebelled, and that her heart was sorely grieved.

He started, greatly troubled when he saw her tears.  Something akin to her own feelings came upon him.  He was terribly distressed, angry with himself.  “Do not weep, my darling!” he exclaimed as he pressed her to him:  “it was stupid, brutal, and wrong of me to speak to you in that way.  Don’t distress yourself, I beg you; we’ll think it all over and talk about it some other time.”