She sat down at the secrétaire, and glanced over the page of figures. Then she added: “I did well to leave a blank space. I’ll put down what I pay him on the margin. You’ll see, now, he’ll fritter it all away by degrees. That’s what I’ve been expecting for a long time past.” Quenu said nothing, but went to bed feeling very much put out. Every time that his wife opened the secrétaire the drawer gave out a mournful creak which pierced his heart. He even thought of remonstrating with his brother, and trying to prevent him from ruining himself with the Mehudins; but when the time came, he did not dare to do it. Two days later Florent asked for another fifteen hundred francs. Logre had said one evening that things would ripen much faster if they could only get some money. The next day he was enchanted to find these words of his, uttered quite at random, result in the receipt of a little pile of gold, which he promptly pocketed, sniggering as he did so, and his hunch fairly shaking with delight. From that time forward money was constantly being needed: one section wished to hire a room where they could meet, while another was compelled to provide for various needy patriots. Then there were arms and ammunition to be purchased, men to be enlisted, and private police expenses. Florent would have paid for anything. He had bethought himself of Uncle Gradelle’s treasure, and recalled La Normande’s advice. So he made repeated calls upon Lisa’s secrétaire, being merely kept in check by the vague fear with which his sister-in-law’s grave face inspired him. Never, thought he, could he have spent his money in a holier cause. Logre now manifested the greatest enthusiasm, and wore the most wonderful rose-coloured neckerchiefs and the shiniest of varnished boots, the sight of which made Lacaille glower blackly. “That makes three thousand francs in seven days,” Lisa remarked to Quenu. “What do you think of that? A pretty state of affairs, isn’t it? If he goes on at this rate his fifty thousand francs will last him barely four months. And yet it took old Gradelle forty years to put his fortune together!” “It’s all your own fault!” cried Quenu. “There was no occasion for you to say anything to him about the money.” Lisa gave her husband a severe glance. “It is his own,” she said; “and he is entitled to take it all. It’s not the giving him the money that vexes me, but the knowledge that he must make a bad use of it. I tell you again, as I have been telling you for a long time past, all this must come to an end.” “Do whatever you like; I won’t prevent you,” at last exclaimed the pork butcher, who was tortured by his cupidity.