This last phrase had a most lugubrious sound. It seemed like the knell of their existence. Pierre pictured the hovel in the old quarter, which had just been mentioned by Félicité. ‘Twas there, then, that he would die on a pallet, after striving all his life for the enjoyment of ease and luxury. In vain had he robbed his mother, steeped his hands in the foulest intrigues, and lied and lied for many a long year. The Empire would not pay his debts—that Empire which alone could save him. He jumped out of bed in his night-shirt, crying: “No; I’ll take my gun; I would rather let the insurgents kill me.” “Well!” Félicité rejoined, with great composure, “you can have that done to-morrow or the day after; the Republicans are not far off. And that way will do as well as another to make an end of matters.” Pierre shuddered. It seemed as if some one had suddenly poured a large pail of cold water over his shoulders. He slowly got into bed again, and when he was warmly wrapped up in the sheets, he began to cry. This fat fellow easily burst into tears—gently flowing, inexhaustible tears—which streamed from his eyes without an effort. A terrible reaction was now going on within him. After his wrath he became as weak as a child. Félicité, who had been waiting for this crisis, was delighted to see him so spiritless, so resourceless, and so humbled before her. She still preserved silence, and an appearance of distressed humility. After a long pause, her seeming resignation, her mute dejection, irritated Pierre’s nerves. “But do say something!” he implored; “let us think matters over together. Is there really no hope left us?” “None, you know very well,” she replied; “you explained the situation yourself just now; we have no help to expect from anyone; even our children have betrayed us.” “Let us flee, then. Shall we leave Plassans to-night—immediately?” “Flee! Why, my dear, to-morrow we should be the talk of the whole town. Don’t you remember, too, that you have had the gates closed?” A violent struggle was going on in Pierre’s mind, which he exerted to the utmost in seeking for some solution; at last, as though he felt vanquished, he murmured, in supplicating tones: “I beseech you, do try to think of something; you haven’t said anything yet.” Félicité raised her head, feigning surprise; and with a gesture of complete powerlessness she said: “I am a fool in these matters. I don’t understand anything about politics, you’ve told me so a hundred times.” And then, as her embarrassed husband held his tongue and lowered his eyes, she continued slowly, but not reproachfully: “You have not kept me informed of your affairs, have you? I know nothing at all about them, I can’t even give you any advice. It was quite right of you, though; women chatter sometimes, and it is a thousand times better for the men to steer the ship alone.”