Then he jested respecting the bareness of the lonely pavilion which they occupied, recounting that as yet they possessed only a dozen plates and five egg-cups. But Beauchêne knew the pavilion, for he went shooting in the neighborhood every winter, having a share in the tenancy of some extensive woods, the shooting-rights over which had been parcelled out by the owner. "Séguin," said he, "is a friend of mine. I have lunched at your pavilion. It's a perfect hovel!" Then Constance, contemptuous at the idea of such poverty, recalled what Madame Séguin--to whom she referred as Valentine--had told her of the dilapidated condition of the old shooting-box. But the doctor, after listening with a smile, broke in: "Mme. Séguin is a patient of mine. At the time when her last child was born I advised her to stay at that pavilion. The atmosphere is wholesome, and children ought to spring up there like couch-grass." Thereupon, with a sonorous laugh, Beauchêne began to jest in his habitual way, remarking that if the doctor were correct there would probably be no end to Mathieu's progeny, numerous as it already was. But this elicited an angry protest from Constance, who on the subject of children held the same views as her husband himself professed in his more serious moments. Mathieu thoroughly understood what they both meant. They regarded him and his wife with derisive pity, tinged with anger. The advent of the young couple's last child, little Rose, had already increased their expenses to such a point that they had been obliged to seek refuge in the country, in a mere pauper's hovel. And yet, in spite of Beauchêne's sneers and Constance's angry remarks, Mathieu outwardly remained very calm. Constance and Marianne had never been able to agree; they differed too much in all respects; and for his part he laughed off every attack, unwilling as he was to let anger master him, lest a rupture should ensue.